ARMOR-LIKE CHARITY
The peach-finder fuzz in my
jacket was probably yours and
leftover. My motorcycle helmet
was growing holes. I'd worn
nothing on my head for years.
And then there was this. A new
level of disbelief patrolling the
coastline : little red soldiers with
things in their hands - guns, rifles,
scopes and machines. The new
girl who brings me coffee came
by again, asking what I needed.
Oh my my, I should have known.
-
Everything you do just radicalizes
me. I went to the barber, he said:
'What would you like?' I said,
back: 'Leave the hair; I want
a new head.'
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