This is My Verse

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I found my soul, in the back seat of my car,
In a Walmart parking lot. I trembled a bit,
As it vibrated from a mole, located by my right nipple.
It hid in the silhouette
Of a neighboring SUV.

Gulls abandoned their hovering
Delved to the asphalt.
Picking at my soul
As if it was trash.

And I remembered the ambition needed for a clumsy childhood.

What kind-of scale is a swing set?
Or…What have I ruined by comparison?

The naked smells of blind talks.
Onion scented moments,
Where an elder placed me on their knee
(Mr.
Or
Mrs. Acetaminophen),
Eyes reddened,
From the soul scratching
Behind the pupils.
“Go for your dreams!”

*In truth. Don’t be ignorant.
Humans have the privilege
To experience the basic,
But describe it as profound.

So I let the gulls
Pick my soul dry.
And I waited…
And I waited…
And I thought.

Why is the air cleanest
Where it’s loneliest?

I wanted back the naked smells
Of blind talks.

After twelve hours
The gulls left.
I followed them
To a billboard
Down the street.

I hid behind a row of ferns.
Each time the wind picked up
Hanging branches from nearby trees
Brushed the advertisement clean.

The gulls appreciated the cleanliness
For they used it as a public restroom.

I saw glimpses of my soul
In the speckled vandalism
Of bird shit.

After the gulls flew away,
I scraped up my soul
And put it into a Ziploc bag.

There it remains,
Inside my pocket.

It might be filthy.
It might be broken and digested.
It might literally be shit.

But that alone makes life poetic.

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