The Electoral College of the human heart looks like a battle field of pink coffins set adrift in a hypodermic sea of waves made of silk and knives that nick past the non-competitive vessels. They do not race successfully. Never is there a finish line. Never any blue ribbons awarded.
Threaded needles attached by love wash ashore crippling, growing voters, like cockroaches with genitals. Roses and receipts in wallets overflowing like fat Buddhas.
Freedom is in the absentee bachelor ballot of love.
Its a cake walk of hardness. The straight forward notion of singledom can stare you down and scold you like an extra-hot-black-angry-barista-made-americano in a flaming styrofoam cup.
Silk scarves and painted nails float ashore. The tidal wave of red hot love and passion cools the country of blue cool. In the promised land of love the President walks around like the embodiment of the word "swagger." In thee secret heart we hold close in our jacket pocket, we cast our ballot, hoping to be counted forever more.
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