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Where was I living?
It was dark, a sheet
Of blood on the stairs

I'd have counted roaches
Navigating the ceiling
If it would buy me sleep

A fridge full of oatmeal
Stout, a white mouse
Rigid and sideways under
The breakfast table

Looking out at a jungle
Through the onion smell
Of establishing shots
For Dennis Franz's ass

Complex music is necessary
But not sufficient I need
My own Halloween costume

Not to hold my breath
Indefinitely