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Can’t stop cleaning house. It feels good. I had to hold up and get to poemin’, otherwise I might’ve cleaned this whole darn house. Gonna write a fast poem about cleaning the house:

Two Exits Before Thoughtful Hwy

Inchin’ towards competent, that’s what we’re doing, creeping up on thoughtful and bourreeing close to peace, happy skipping increments toward relief, little toemarks toward the door and outside. That’s where we are now, just shrugging off the distance, between lemons and gold, just squaring that awful distance, like it is nothing, like it is air. Circling around insight, turning and turning in the big ole’ gyre, the sound is less heard than the image, and the seconds become inches in this big space, big space that wants big dances. Close to peace, always so close, big fake spaces that we make, these invented spaces, quite close to larger spaces, like large moon steps, weightless but tethered to the dust, all floaty and wide, the space between the ground and the boots all glow-y is so far from sense. Two exits before thoughtful, ’bout ten to fifteen minutes on the highway till we come up on reason.

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Happy Friday, poem friends. Hope you are inching towards competent as well.

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