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The beginning is the end, the
behind in front until all we have
in our mind is a poke in the butt.

It doesn’t matter, the skin and
prose before God, life and heaven
knows the fantasy can be better

than the real thing, g-strings,
blocking out all but a perfectly
composed rear, we all pause to

take in the glory of that which
got us here.  We can rise above
the instinct to love, but would we

ever want to submerge in anything
not on the verge, the creative urge,
the song called death that life needs

to truly purge, the end the beginning
as covered, take it off, show me the
thing I know but forget, the thing that

ties me in knots, dictates movement
and makes you wet, slippery to get,
sunshine in the crack like a jungle

for cat on cat, wild that, this on
and off punch through the page victory
of clouds over rain, smiling again

like a batman punch, “Wow” and
“Zam” in quotes, seventies colors and
sixties ‘do’s, eighties synthesizers and

fu manchu’s, underage drinking
bar-b-ques, nothing new, drinking
a flammable liquid, calling it “what

others do?”  We come back, though,
we come back to the darkest place,
the beginning, the inspiration for songs,

dreams and late night phone calls,
as God the creator created, we come back
to that which keeps us creating, curling

and whirling in a never-ending story of
humans populating a moon of the sun
called earth, we come back to the crack.

I love it.

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