A Poem Thread

Absolutely the final version. No dithering henceforth in that respect.
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Another clash? A cold defeat.
The victors flash
as they flee in retreat.

Come seek with us. You won't get lost.
So dangerous,
I say we're all star-crossed.

Moving again. Life iterates.
Grooming yes-men
at a different place.

Changing careers. Identical aims.
Meet the same peers
with alternative names.

Many circles. Ceaseless replay.
Rounding hurdles,
slowly sneaking away.

Raising tired tropes. Hiding the truth.
Much like the hoax
behind a curtained booth.

Break out the polls. Let's gauge the vote.
The public knows
that's a lion's fur coat.

A gourd head rode. The campaign trail.
His sawhorse crowed:
"Lots of pumpkin for sale!"

Commiserate. Just let Dot cross.
She can dance great
with the crew's straw boss.

Quick to depart? He leaves the rest.
A chopper's heart
is in his tin can chest.

Challenge the norm. Shake it askew.
Jinjur's bold swarm
surrounds a city view.

Will Tip return? Surgery's due.
It's Ozzie's little U-turn
from Pink to Blue.

Strange decorum. A body sprawled.
Schedule the postmortem,
Mister Baum was mauled.

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"How it is fickle, leaving one alone to wander

the halls of the skull with the fluorescents
softly flickering. It rests on the head

like a bird nest, woven of twigs and tinsel
and awkward as soon as one stops to look.
That pile of fallen leaves drifting from

the brain to the fingertip burned on the stove,

to the grooves in that man’s voice
as he coos to his dog, blowing into the leaves

of books with moonlit opossums
and Chevrolets easing down the roads
of one’s bones. And now it plucks a single

tulip from the pixelated blizzard: yet

itself is a swarm, a pulse with no
indigenous form, the brain’s lunar halo.

Our compacted galaxy, its constellations
trembling like flies caught in a spider web,
until we die, and then the flies

buzz away—while another accidental

coherence counts to three to pass the time
or notes the berries on the bittersweet vine

strewn in the spruces, red pebbles dropped
in the brain’s gray pool. How it folds itself
like a map to fit in a pocket, how it unfolds

a fraying map from the pocket of the day."
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I Kiss The Feet Of Angels

A. D. Winans

"dark stormy night
fog creeping in
over the hills
raindrops falling
on the window
I see the faces of old friends
staring at me
ghosts from the past
freight trains steam ships
subway trains carrying their
cargo of death
Rimbaud the mad hatter
Lorca fed a meal of bullets
Kaufman black messiah
walking Bourbon street
eating a golden sardine
Micheline drinking with Kerouac
at the old Cedar Tavern
Jesus wiping the perspiration
from his forehead
the fog horn plays a symphony
inside my head
I hear the drums
I feel the Beat
I kiss the feet
of angels"