F43.23

the meager fist weakly swings at the face of unknown beast its always pathos in the middle of the ring high noon comes and no one yawns in excitement alas the night she enters the stage in my mind and the coliseum fills with eager patrons waiting for my show when the torments in my head become high end commodity at dawn washing the bruises off with rye found in the gutters i slip into my expat suit and hit the road with my naked feet because the convergence of the quantums weighs heavy on my soul

for Anthony Bourdain and me

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