The only rule is win out here
where the losers look around
and sometimes wonder.
What happened to all the sycamore
branches that would collect down
in the grass and catch on fire?
I miss those yearly burns where all
the deer would watch where they grew up
destroy itself and never ask a question.
No one has the fortune
to be ignored anymore
in any way that matters.
There are paper piles building high
on everything you’ve ever
asked the mirror about,
and even worse is how
it phrases all your stories.
Our fools will be preserved like
something crystallized
in ever present detail.
Kennedy will feel that bullet for eternity,
and I’ll be here forever
in the matrix to be copied down,
and passed around
so easy to make fun of
and recycle.

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