John Ervin Thomas Sand

John Ervin Thomas Sand is an accountant and poet living in Minneapolis, MN. He loves french fries. Follow him on twitter: @johnervin
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virtue
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i’ve been drinking too much

alone on the floor next to my couch. it’s the state of the world, i say, and pull another swig of warm gin i’ve poured into a

wine glass. the homeless kids are getting me down; a man i knew was killed by police, high on meth. it’s this cultural pain,

but all the time i know. i let the heat disinfect me.

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i tell men to come over,

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not sober enough to remember their last names when i wake in a start next to them. i’m hoping to find one that will shield

me from myself when the moon is in void and i am a wolf, but i dash them with my throwaway.

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they repeat my lines back to me over the din of my head in the morning and i ask oh is that from a play? i don’t remember

telling you i have six sets of teeth. when did i say i could feel myself sifting like flour, bland and powerless? i ache. i’m

plagued by people that remember the silly things i say when grief overtakes me in the bruise of night.

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i prayed once to an alcoholic who slapped me in his kitchen. the booze drew out the swelling into a long burn and i guess it

was the answer to my plea. i howled with rejoice at this just punishment; my god is spiteful. he’s the thunderous rain.

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i was stormed once by this god, grabbed and held down, his hand a white shock on me. he impinged on me a thin streak of

seared earth and i feel it all the time, like a running tongue over a fresh sore.

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i grow tired of religion now. these men are cigarettes to me. i exhale them until the filter burns me,

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lurch into them in twilight, a sudden shiva of want.

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in the morning, i lean on the counter next to an apple some man bought me that’s stippled with age and anger, find a

fanged wound on the inside of my leg, sensitive. it’s my evidence, a penance. i let my head against the cabinet and praise it

as a compress.

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