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Not This Disease

Words come slowly
Sometimes, none.
A struggle never won
The words lonely, until done
Hopefully

Another coffee shop
A warm cup and company
Muse’s altar
Bodies, voices
Faces, stories
Reminders
The world is still here

Then, lyrics.
Goddammit, pull the reins
Paragraphs, please
Not this disease

“You prayed, I gave.”
She says
“Why question the sun’s rays?”

No prose
Just meter and verse
Creation in reverse
Buried first, cleaned by worms and dirt
From the ground sprouts
The gleam of singing bones

Fuck Kenton and Davis
Fuck improvisation, syncopation
Curse my father’s trumpet
My mother’s lungs
Damn my blue note origins
I don’t want to be bullets
Fired from poet’s guns

Heart’s call
The heeding, hard enough
The beating, in fits and leaps
The bleeding, always
Somewhere between clot and flow

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