wickets and wockets.

You are strung out
filled up with poker chips
and a big desk of unsentimental
crack addicts and wagons
run through the lower belt of untamed perfection
and then these people right down like its an infection
struggle to protection lemme guess its in the wrong direction.
little hopes. big dreams. I have no dreams
just fate and l;earning how to participate
clean slate dry erase board with no eraser.
see my streaks even when wiped clean
of bad decisions.
luck of the draw. complexion of the stick
it was short I lost. I am not the law
it won. son of a gun
looking into the sun.
reason and recording.
pockets and devoting.
running walking trudging through rain
swaying with songs and long pauses
of uncollected silence of irritation. no thoughts just words
its absurdness that I keep running when I am tired
its like I am wired and fired from a gun.
and I am still looking back when I thought I was the only one.
and I started thinking. and wondering.
when This poem would start to make sense.

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