poetry day.

Thick, hot, spicy Indian soup that reminds me of a different place, far, far away. Somewhere over the rainbow where cameras talk and the hot crusted earth reminds you of the danger of romantics.  Where love seems real and cities still have magic and a favorite band blaring through the open windows of a beat-up old truck can remind you that the world is still beautiful. The things I’ve heard– I still don’t believe them. Because you still have magic, and you’re the only one left.

Siamese located left of pole on wall.  Take your anorexics and broken marriages far away from me. That is perfection.

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