Anthony Kiedis Puts on a Shirt

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Laundered.

One hundred percent Pima

Cotton.

Carefully buttoned onto a soft

hanger. Smells like nothingness.

White like sun-bleached stones.

Fits over tattoos

            tribal and otherwise

Fits over tanned biceps.

Fits under impressive hair.

On Anthony Kiedis’ mind is

every song he’s ever sung;

ballads and rock and funk

he couldn’t give the key

to the cacophonous mumur of

his secrets whispered over

            music.

The cotton nicely spills

over

the yoke spread across his back

bracing those muscles

forgivingly.

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