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“Man, I Ain’t Been Pulled Over In Three Months”


Nobody knew who put the cement mixer in the broom closet,

How a petrified forest got into the stairwell,

Or why a white vulture was eating the financial markets.

Old Glory unfurls every morn over Joliet Prison.

Love makes you do things you’ll pay for later.

Dharma comes like a thief in the night,

Steals the life you could’ve taken, but did not,

Overpowers outlook, rolls your corpse down the hill,

Gives birth through the cervix of dreams,

Cuts off attachment with the iron knives of kindness.



21 May 2010