Robots Driving By The Oligarchy

I can’t sleep when you’re on vacation.

My hands are small, smaller than they’ve
ever been.

The kittens were born ten years ago behind
a modest wooden house in Fort Worth.

The cats will die someday. I’ll cry like a
baby then.

I personally think the bacteria in your stomach
and anus are what’s ruined you, you know

soured you as a person,

in the midst of this lactic war.

Biologists think the big red spot on Jupiter
is fueled by lactic acid,

the lactic acid, that is, in its upper atmosphere.

I thought for a moment;
kind of like your robot stomach.

You do
love a lot like robots driving by the White House,

reporting on domestic spying initiatives
and
tossing Molotov cocktails.

Your sheets are folded perfectly.
Your bed is made quiet nicely.

These are not codes, Shipley Shipwin. They are
not codes.

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