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Sunday, October 16, 2011


I borrowed this body from a Folgers can
Full of cigarette-butts, showing a dis-colored man
Wandering in a caffeinated confusion
Listening to the way blood boils in Tucson
He, like I, got used to it
But I never wanted this or that or those
For I am not the writer of this story
And perhaps that's why it's so boring
With the clicks of their finger-tips
I hear the death of conversation
With the chapped lips of of a realist
I sing out the lament of a nation

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