Slip On Shoes

No cure
for the restless
with sputtering minds:
an ’86 Chevrolet
with a hole in the gas tank
and a corpse in the trunk.

Eyes shut
brace the doors
of my water damaged
asylum
insects within my split tongue
released to the public
kernels stuck between
my teeth
the protein
of Heaven’s head lice.

Trade shoes
but
some laces aren’t worth being tied
I won’t be surprised
to find you’ve hijacked a plane
murdered your spouse
and ejaculated on the President’s face.

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