There are never enough beds
To go around the stars.
I keep these things to myself,
As the moon keeps
A vast collection of shoes.
There is a time clock inside of me
You keep punching out,
To stop me from dreaming.
These travels have no future.
Like the establishment,

I was once aftershave and anticipation.
Everything began there,
With its artifacts and oblivion.
But I still prefer the daydream with its agenda,
And the afterlife of fingers,

Taking my measurements.
Alas, I am done for the day and have a few requests:
Perhaps some fried squid to unclutter the mind where all roads end.
Or some aromatic sleep with its beautiful crescent pillows.
And a book with long legs who tells me where to begin.
{ Frank Lima } 

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