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I sometimes read a hollow voice,
Something essential
Seeping through
Cold winter windows.
Invisible forces escape
Through corners with paint chips
Rustling black dry dead flies,
A rattle when the wind kicks up is all you get
But even that never comes when you could use it.

I sometimes read a slow-roasted voice,
Sudden juices licked by meandering flames.
Orgiastic dervishes spurt and sizzle.
Some words succumb to the heat magic of evaporation.
Others intensify, glistening caramelized bits,
An aftertaste you ache for.
How does this voice make the words so hickory smoked?

I sometimes read a heavy voice,
A boulder tied round,
Chain dragging
Concrete blocks over rigid cracks of upheaval.
Troublesome prisoners in stockades wailing and moaning,
Hands lonely dangling,
Barnacles hanging on the backs of words,
I run this voice through the maze of things it won’t say.

Blue rings and yellow moans
Subtle always mellow mayhem
Eyes on the prize, ear to the ground
Honey, dripping through a chain.
I follow deep chest tones around.

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