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Truth, beauty, art. Hefty-bag it;
throw it out. Hoover these flat words,
black and black typed on white.

While we're at it, flush love too.
There's more than enough to last
and pitch Genet, Molly Bloom, dying

light, all that. Toss your sense of humor;
take rubric out with the dentures.
About faith, the oldest joke,

you can't pray it gone;
take the jobs you didn't work
long enough to get fired and those

you did, bag them. Save
only the new gray, the useless,
sagging testicles, the fat.

Save the eyes and the parchment
skin. Say the eyes,
you'll never know what hit you.

      — Ron Jones