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September 20, 2023 Poetry


Oak Morse

Rags photo

when my closet opens     it all 
            tumbles & on the side lies my rag
fitted- black-tee used to woo myself 
           I push to my long-black durag 
I wear to often shrink to a stereotype
            jumbo Rogaine tin cans     tiny portals 
to youth I push to my melatonin tablets
            lost magic scattered white pebbles 
on a shore phony chains lighting     me
            a golden-christmas tree I push to my 
smoke from seductive candles to clear 
            out misery violet tickling feathers
angelic-faced numbers in ancient 
           cell phones I push to my chapstick 
used on her lips below, Japanese whiskey 
            & white wine flavors voyeur conscience 
to my own foul play of hollowness 
            push on to small flashlights to illuminate regret 
in journals from my young manhood 
           at night, bastard ideology when   daddy 
was only a dial away I push to my half-empty 
            gel pens used to spawn spiked poems 
about mama—a contra ode fables where I wish 
            upon myself to be a hawk                              —unbounded 
I push self-portraits framed nailed down 
           the dankest corridor in my brain
all the overused yuck I dump in a deadly 
            ditch the sweet
                                     so long to my rag