i’m not sure

if this is a poem,

but i’m gathering

up the splinters

of a smashed guitar

to see where it takes me.

but i want to leave it alone,

cuz it’s a different side.

the claim of not being heard,

echoes in the valley,

where the thrust of the sun

hunkers in this milky town.

there are things to obey,

but i want another margarita,

and stop writing everything down,

because it’s an uncommon problem.

i guess it makes a prayer damn worthy –

i’ll write when it’s over.

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