Dearest Damian

I know one equation not even the
best doctor in the cosmos can solve.

Encrypted in a southern gothic,
Encompassing more than war and antithesis.
Encapsulated deep in the bitter earth
whose alleged injury escapes my concern.
Scarecrowed by a jolly green, yes, green, giant
who may not unearth me, nor make me turn.
Simpler life below was more the focus
than Oxford gems foresight rejected.
No matter what the New Yorker or Harper’s
of Facebook or Twitter or WordPress
Insisted.

The banshee screams just one damn word
And so,
The sailor who fell from grace with the sea
will spill his guts to pass the time,
And still not know which bewilders him more,
the hard-on for him you timelessly hold,
or the class war you siege abasing your own.

If the answer to you is indeed in the stars,
Doctor, once again,
You are a knowledgeable fool.

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