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Poems

Flow Anonymously

A few beers and an amalgamation

of animal flesh and organs

will not nurture me, but at least it will hold

me over (along with, perhaps, some microwaved

leftovers). Will I remember

this exact cigarette on this stoop in this town

if I am lucky enough to be alive

a year from now?

Most likely these images will merge

into a rubber sphere resembling the unsatisfying

hotdog I just ate. A processed

and pre-conceived cinematic fiction-food

that my future thoughts will feed

upon in slight dismay. No, I will not remember each moment,

they will flow altogether into the river

of myself, then the bay of my generation,

while ultimately being consumed by the sea

of humanity. Grace is the will

to fight against the onslaught

when all else seems lost.

All I’ve ever known is resistance.