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Haven

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home, safe haven. work, accidents always happen mostly within ten miles of home. home is elusive. used to think that hope is where your hat hung. well hung hate. fedora. baseball. ten gallon. skull capped with a browning 9mm. drinking at mickey's last night, finishing off with mack, when we drank two shots of tequila each and talked about how our jobs where alike:

i am a data plumber and mac plumbs pipes, lead, filled with immovable shit. my data collisions and his turds. the a/c, the turd, urine filled vats yellow viscous and stinking.

a boy told me he must suffer so suffer he shall; a boy told me his life is gravy and delicious and it is it is. poor fools poor fools but i cannot blame them because look at all their friends and parents and world and school and look at the darkness of the clothing.

rather, vivid colors. rather, catch a rainbow. rather, embrace the vibrating illusion. i won't accept your downer bullshit cause it might infect my sunny dispossession.

©1998 chris abraham