It's never too late to try to talk your way out of
this morass of hot sauce, habanero for the likes of misunderstood maladies, simply charging the world for remedies, anonymous but not nearly so as to waken the doctor, the white coat that coats really a fantasy of efforts that cross into realms of glory. Doesn't really seem glorious to suffer, tongue in cheek or just cheek or tongue, as it says for jokes about beef, cattle or even other animals meant for the stockyard, ones who don't pester pedestrian pharmacists, as though there were ordinary prescriptions for this malady, as suffering goes or pains me. In particular it is that the symptoms are catching - or not really something I can describe beyond aspirin that's easy to purchase in boxes, meant for giving meaning to the word love, I know as I would like to be known for my sauce, but never pain at dinner time, when good conversation floats but never wanders into emergency rooms. © 2015 Larry Ingram
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Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture. Categories
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