I feel like I'm drowning and
my hands are slipping on your slippery bow.

I've never vested so much in electron misfiring.
I have, however opened your door and filled
coffee cups to overflowing

with all my crinkled death
smoldering in your absence.

I never thought that your

memory in tight cotton dresses
and sterile design could take me so far.

I need an outlet,
the source of your

chicken flavored commune.
I need to see your face in every light.


Raymond Mitchell Strickland Jr.

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