in repetitious themes

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always with my head in the clouds
thinking out loud
at work and on the couch.
sometimes i cry

but it’s only fleeting
when i remember in whose bed i’m sleeping.

even though the sheets are Gluckstein Gode,
the floor still feels good after i’ve shot my load –
every day, waiting to explode
then collapse into dark of the shared abode.
i can’t even watch Married With Children anymore.

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