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Turn turn turn

I found my opinion
leering at naked women
and chastised it
for its brazen disregard
of ocular transgressions,
micro and macro.

My opinion stumbled
from the red rectangle
of the bar entrance
to the driver side door
and blinked away
blurry vision
all the way home.

My opinion is a crybaby,
a bully,
an often misguided missile,
striking a target
with no concern
for the collateral damage.

He walks down dark alleys
dragging a crowbar
caked with rust
and dried liquid
that flakes off black
in his hands
very similar to rust.

I toss him out of my house
like a paper plane,
a drum with a hole in it,
a bowling ball
tied to some fishing line
with two hooks,
one imbedded in each
of my bloodshot eyes.

I wrestle him down
like an older brother
or a father I never had
asking me to say uncle
with no idea
what happens next
after the name has been uttered.

My opinion gets lonely,
it needs to fuck,
to be touched,
admired for its form,
the shock rock smoothness
of cold steel and flesh,
it has needs, it has feelings,
but most of all
it has fists.

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