catch the gulls catching orange bellies when they raise above the shadow line. a piping mug of yerba moving pendulently, ritualistic in my step like a thurible grinding at my callouses. whether catholic aisles or the city street, beggars on both sides. good morning gulls and howdy to the ranch hand roping a safety net for carbon emissions. cut the market a break, immersive bowel purge from feeding on lungsick sea flocks undercooked and tenderly bloody. the orange eats creeps. sip cough binded sputum firing from the tobacco komodo swinging on my uvula. usually a light smoker, but today is something different and i’m begging for a burn and the nose-cinching horizon that could swallow my face. another sputter like water boarded boat spiders that kick their legs and drown at the same time. snacks for the old gulls. i looked to god for nothing this morning, shunned olfactory peace and threw up in stride. i’d rather a punkrock bile lining than the crunchy biblical words of psalm.

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