spilling out and over listening to yawn and hiccup of

people preachers someone knew. Indoors on ugly carpet

feet bleeding begging for an ounce of grace

but Nothing comes, faster than he could even run

a curlyheaded gauntfaced lover shouting from the lawn

shouting from the lawn to our thick windows how to care he

taught us all a hell of a lot of things but not about

how to die so we will live I guess,

when all we want to do is watch the thin lips tremble

tongue and heart and hands run rampant because

he was an Opinion

growling about hurt and burnt and

scared first sex and angry loving wretchedness and

how to grow and hate, respect, the dying

starry tigers in your simple supernova eyes.

They built the pyramids for you and you didn’t

even blink. They hung the birds midflight through

skyscrapers the other afternoon in New York

City and waited all night for your clipped warm

approval but it didn’t come because

you were in Africa starving for royalty and

reading Socialist essays so they took them down

and now the skyscrapers are crumbling.

I took a look around and decided

not to cry.

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Morgan Chesley

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Morgan Chesley is 17 years old and may be the only member of her generation to love Beat. She lives in Alaska with several heavy books and a mountain. Morgan is an overappreciated prep cook and an underappreciated intellectual, and is mostly unaware of her future, as it seems to be quite a sneaky thing. Morgan is not yet published in print, but you can find her work online at .

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