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the Maim Problem of people
has been an inability to join
in promise
and Yet only that proves civility.
a promise of whole life,
or fights for ethical rights
for all.

So few get paid
to rhythm the way
wise would or
few pay.

A fill of words
on streets where
love decides
discussion.

i don’t know
what makes this so
I guess only.

A tender symbol
to human
environment
tone.
Few choose an alarming violence
transient sighting a grab of bags,
and yet
come to fill .
Life more
than Hugo, Tolstoy
or steinbok could weigh
the innocent shine of
the gutters rhyme

I have always
had a problem
I hate to dance alone.
a cowardice , no
for dance i did and loved it,
a proof of being
a box of chocolates
in starvation,
but to be dumb,
your face so close
without meeting hand.
twisting spines
to line intend
to wills amended
adjusted temperance-d
taunt, releasing together
your difference given
willing conformity.
because you heard what i couldn’t
speck so yelled
and I do, yet, hate Loving my dance alone.
Loving rise tides gives wet eyes,
tooth size and crinkled skins
with a partner in wind
if only self, soul and sin.
If only energy electric
through waters aesthetic
and a poet’s price,
for a one of the amateur
and what is silent of .
is all.
a tone of exchange
a clamor of towns
and invention of self.
All, the street of orange , blackness filters cancerous
blind humanness, sufferance addiction’s self justification
in a seventy thousand samba
someone must write of the dance.
the pretty close or open
I really hate to love alone.

OH Poet
but what if
no one wants
to read it
knowing one knows.
Know one.

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