By Matt Comito

I have allowed, for far too long,
my beard and hair to grow without tempering
or order. The dead parts of me have taken
over and my face disappears beneath the weight
of my indifference; my face an ancient ruin the
hungering jungle chooses finally, to reclaim. 

I’ll tell you a story that I’ve just made up: 

A farmer buys a tract of land, acre
By acre dredges and digs at it. He hauls out
Stones and stumps. He drains and shapes the contours
Of his land. One day I decide, ‘enough’,
Stare myself down in the mirror, ‘enough’.
I pick up my razor and I begin.

Matt Comito is a bookseller who lives in Los Angeles. He has had a lot of time on his hands the last couple of years. Right now, he is curious as to why there is a mysterious noise coming from his walk-in closet. He hopes it is one of his cats.

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