some camels are lucky to have
one good hump in them
some camels have more
some camels aren’t camels at all
they’re in reality:
poorly disguised blues songs
begging your heart’s doorbell
for forgiveness
screaming at the top of their
not really hoofed lungs
because they’re not camels
and all that…
they’re blues songs
and the moon is a
pawned harmonica
and i love you
like a filthy cigarette
you are bustily more powerful than nicotine
what camels?
let’s talk of something else



(from my book I See you, Lewis. Baobob Tree Press)

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