Major Jackson

Intentions for Sale


A sale is a sale, even if it smells like grass, 

which if you could scratch and sniff might  

carry the aroma of lard.  But, in scratching

your front lawn, beware of tiny nicks, so much

like paper cuts doused with salt.  Then, 

rise up. See the sky red as ketchup,

the sun beaming its arches. This is when

you'll need your earbuds. Plug One. Plug Two.

Give over your anger. You'll hurt no more. 



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