Learning to Die in the Theater by Jon Thrower

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Learning to Die in the Theater

the way a poem learns to die is that way she broke up with me:
throwing someone’s sister into the fender of an S-10 Chevy
and turning to kick me tween the nuts with those pointy shoe’s
bizarre popularity in 2006. While said sister’s hair covered a zoysia
swath near the oak’s cloistered Natty can’s conference I just
laid out stiff in the rainbow iris and wildflower patch by the porch
hoping for death. In the morning, Talley shook me awake saying,
“Dude, let’s get a beer.” My hand across the rasp of his shaved
head was soothed by a Bud bottle at the Sandlot where a guy named
Foreskin illustrated, in perfect algorithms, the double-bank.

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