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Jul
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poem.

I smoke the weeds that grow up through

cracks in hot empty parking lots,

spew out their cremated corpses and breathe

life into ashy wastelands;

I watch their carbon chains deconstruct and

settle in my blackened lungs like a soft layer

of topsoil. Inside, I can feel the seeds

growing.

 

Bronchi; bronchioles; alveoli grow up and

out like trees gasping for sunlight.

Chemicals diffuse into my blood like

smokestacks into the pewter grey sky

and blood runs like dirty river water choked

by garbage and shit.

 

I am an imperfect ecosystem, polluted by

a confusion of overdeveloped neurons

like an invasive plant that gluts itself and

proliferates while all else dies.

Its roots tangle inside my brain and choke,

choke, choke, until all I am is

plant.

 

Parasite and host, impossibly entwined: I

push up through this concrete towards

sunlight.

| poetry
Jul
3
2013
Jul
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Jul
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Jul
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