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The Hobgoblin of Truth No. 16


and the cold

has me smoking in

the garage on break

from writing

it was waiting for me

          cross-legged in a chair

          tusk-teeth pushing its yellow

          lip into something like a smile

Why don’t you sleep? it says

Why torture yourself?

Ten years at it and not a dime

No shred of notoriety

Just shit posture

And dead pens

You won’t be remembered







i smoke and look

at its smile

in three steps

i’m all but on top

               of the yellow sonuvabitch

i exhale the filter smoke

in its eyes

and tell it to fuck off

i’ve got writing

to do

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