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zombies in the architecture

it’s well past midnight
and i find myself
- alone
listening to the spurious
hum of distant
and highways

i often wonder
where people run
- in the middle
of the night -
deep in the black when
the sane find comfort
in the cavernous folds
of afghan and quilt,

past the witching hour
buried in the lair
of predators and priests

i sit there smoking -
listening to songs
of the sainted
rise and drift
through my bones -
a breeze carries
the remains of
the dead,
- ghosts without rising -
through the mist.

begins with a
beggar's sun
and dies against
borrowed time.

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About Jack Henry

7 4
jack henry lives and breaths in southeastern, california in a shitty small town of toad suck, where he is poet laureate because he was the only one in a population of twenty-six that could spell, write, or speak without drooling. jack prides himself in writing about anything and everything, subsequently mastering nothing other...read more than the waste and destruction of natural resources via excessive paper use. further, jack is devoted to the preservation of the mojave tail clicker, which is a small bird that continuously flies due to not having feet and is endangered due to the destruction of it's natural habitat by a truck stop.
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