For 3 Women On Hustlers, Liars and Assholes

The no-anthem,
the pause, skip eye glance
cold shoulder sudden slacking–
habitual untruths and half nods,
trapped in the prison cell bars
and crippled by that old, familiar hunger;

here is written the last Gospel of Lies–
the eternity of misinformed
and clatter floor boasts,
the parable children rising with the corn
–that never existed–
coming undone as the eyes lie against their stitch
and filled, crimped forms.

No fathoming such depths–
no unraveling the childhood clenches
that drive adult human beings in these directions;

however it’s lessoned,

the learners learn
while professors
teach decrepit.


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