Poems from Lipinski

by they I mean, humans.   uttering a gutteral language of pinched air and pitch   tongue rolling words off the tongue, one after the other...
An auctioneers voice says, "Sold! To you sir, these forty chairs." Impulsive I suppose but so too, food   $11.00 bid and a journey for...
What's that you say?   Hello?   Oh...   I see.   Yes.   Yes of course, and, and, and....   but what is simple and so easy to say, i will...
It feels like a fog Moist collection of thoughts Dripping constantly with some form of idea Sometimes the clarity is lost Sometimes the...
Spring, morning days still tempted by a frosty nature Sentinel clouds bring a whim where one is a drop and the other, a flake   Settling...

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