The brush of my breath
strums the broken-down guitar
that sits behind me
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THE DEAD ARE THIEVES, TOO They’ll pick your pocket clean, like that Ozark you left by the river. How many times do I have to talk to you? ... -
CIVILIZATION AND ITS’ DISCONNECTS Turn off your computer. I know, I know. I will cease to exist. I will return to my cave of shadows, ha...
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