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By Olivia Somes

You ever have someone
yell at you let’s have coffee
from a across an intersection
with as much charisma
as a lump sack of marbles
or have co-workers say let’s do lunch
with a twitter in their eye
that says let’s not. What
randomness occurred in the
schematics of God’s plan
to induce that craving for
the hollow invitation of the doing.
Let’s never speak again,
save such vocalizations
for petty arguments
over toaster ovens or
who paralyzed the pool boy
in that novella. Let’s
judge others for not driving
hybrids or driving hybrids.
Let’s revel in the dirtiest
part of the mundane and kill
each other over parking spots.
There’s a dark sincerity in pettiness,
a firm faith in the shortcomings
of others, an immovable belief
in the suspicions of our neighbors.
When I accuse a co worker
of readjusting my desk chair
while I was out doing lunch,
I mean it with all the brevity
of my ticked off lips, I mean it
with the fiery eyes of a thousand
church choirs. No son of a bitch
is going to touch my chair

is a truth to be transcended
over a millennia.

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