581 lines
12 KiB
Plaintext
581 lines
12 KiB
Plaintext
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S A N D R I V E R J O U R N A L
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Issue 6, Friday Aug 13 1993
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* * *
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Sand River Journal is a collection of poems gathered from the newsgroup
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rec.arts.poems; it is posted monthly in \TeX\ and PostScript formats. Poems
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appear by authors' permission and constitute copyrighted material. Free
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transmission of this document (electronic or otherwise) is permitted only
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in its entire and unaltered form; to inquire about individual poems contact
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the authors by their email addresses. The editor takes no responsibility
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for the fate of this document, nor does he claim ownership to any of the
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contents herein.
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Many of the poems appearing in this issue were collected and forwarded
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to me by zita marie evensen while I was away in Michigan. Send comments
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and contributions (please reference SRJ) to asphaug@lpl.arizona.edu.
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Enjoy!
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Erik Asphaug, Editor
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* * *
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little clouds with arms and legs
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little clouds with arms and legs
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sometimes a single diaphanous souffle
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nimbi florid with the golden flesh of sun
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how to measure perfect blueness
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there is a land, there is a land
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hardly anything grows there
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but wildflowers shrubs and rocks
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these rocks have been growing old for ages
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petroglyphs are dimly flowering yon
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and dave loves kim across the coyote
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and mary loves sam across the anasazi warrior
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and the crushed aluminum can loves no one
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here they come, here they come
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Marek Lugowski
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marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu
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*
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Troth
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Nothing that you loved
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could make me hate you.
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Nothing you believed
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could shake my trust.
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Nothing that you are
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could push me from you very far.
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I will not go unless you say I must.
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Even so, I'd linger on the outskirts
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around the long-lost realm of love and light,
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haunted, ever haunting your horizon,
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just visible to telescopic sight.
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Jennifer Merri Parker
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jmparker@isis.msstate.edu
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*
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ash swamp road
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an oblique cut. a stop sign. a lilac or two.
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ash swamp road opens up and beckons you.
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in the green shade as the dark trees kiss
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over the road
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you hear whispered the stories
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of a time ago
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when the land was free of scars and
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the pinpricks of telephone poles
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when the people who lived here
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lived simply
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lived in harmony
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i have yet to listen to the ash swamp road.
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Marek Lugowski
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marek@casbah.acns.nwu.edu
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*
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blue with brass quartet
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it might be midnight winter solstice and it might
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be cold, a blue that burns on cheekbones
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and the stars flare bright and fiery
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and all the gin in me is warm. i am singing
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in the street, i am light, empty, and the wind
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slips through me. i slide away, turn liquid,
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float into the darkness. i am everywhere and my arms
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embrace all the invisible people
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that i love because i cannot see them.
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every clear warm drop of me is falling
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into the sky.
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or it might be the middle of an april afternoon and i
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am sober as a rock polished smooth by an overflowing stream
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people are everywhere thick on the ground
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it makes them less lovable and now the air
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is blue as the sound of trumpets once more triumphant
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as winter yields spring. i want to lie down
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and drink in this day, or paint my bedroom
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ceiling in this resounding hue. it pulls me up
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until i sing again.
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and it might be that across the bridge, bare bushes
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with green laquer creeping on the bark, are moving
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to the silent beat. are singing too.
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Marie Coffin
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mcoffin@iastate.edu
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*
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II. It seems that I prefer what you prefer
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It seems that I prefer what you prefer
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and love the things you love, as tenderly.
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So, since your heart has settled so on her
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and called her dear, so she must be to me.
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It never has been difficult before,
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but now I see my own unworthiness
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in failing to consider your joy more
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and my own greedy hopes and feelings less.
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So, though it put my friendship to the test,
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I shall hope for the best in your affairs,
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and dearly love your love at your request,
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and set her name among my evening prayers.
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But do not introduce us for a while,
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Till I require less fortitude to smile.
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V. Grande-dame, will you please show me what you clutch
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Grande-dame, will you please show me what you clutch
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so firmly in your ice-arthritic hold?
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I lately feel as if I'd aged as much,
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my heartbeat slowing, surface growing cold.
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What desiccated flowers have you kept
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in secret books of dreams, with caution pressed
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between the pages, broken petals swept
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into the drawers and cupboards of your breast?
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I know you are not mindless, as they think.
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I could be your contemporary, wise
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because of my own pain. Teach me to sink
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into that secret place behind the eyes.
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And all who look will see an awkward pair,
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but we will be consoled and never care.
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Jennifer Merri Parker
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jmparker@Isis.msstate.edu
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*
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Gift
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it is the rain
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of a hundred years
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pummeling my umbrella
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like a wet banner in the wind
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lashing my psyche
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to bleeding ribbons
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cold. wet. empty.
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till i opened the mail
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full of fireflies
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from a summer night!
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*
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zita maria evensen
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bu016@cleveland.freenet.edu
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*
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License to Kill
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Eat worms and die,
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I think to myself;
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as the red&white bobber
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slaps the surface
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and the poor worm
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with a #4 hook
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shoved up his ass
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till it pokes out his face
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splashes down
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with a satisfying splunk.
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A dozen took
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the proffered annelidans;
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At home I heat the oil
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in black cast iron,
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after washing guts
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from hands
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that learned
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this ichthycidal game
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quite young.
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Cecil Williams
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cecilw@access.isc-br.com
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*
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Goedel
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So rich was logic's formal soil
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that the sturdy arithmetic groves
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(old stoic atheistic Russell's harvest)
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produced such a preposterous fruit:
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noumenal seed of which, though it might
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be named, shall not be reaped or sewn.
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Ronald Bloom
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rbloom@netcom.com
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*
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eyes
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child. you see no color
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now. skin a darker shade of pale
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slant eyes ... high cheeks
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can i float
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with multi-colored wings
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into your garden
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no.
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am i a victim
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of my eyes
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zita marie evensen
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bu016@cleveland.freenet.edu
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*
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MES COPAINS
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J'en ai marre
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parce que mes copains sont tres bizzare
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Je suis triste
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parce qu'ils sont completment materaliste
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Je les deteste
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parce qu'ils sont toujours me protestent
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Mes copains sont tres riches
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mais Je m'en fiche
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ils ecrievent des lyriques
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et Je les trouve tres comique
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M.Murat ildan
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ildam@essex.ac.uk
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*
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BALANCE
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words are cubes of ice
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"that which is"
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a golden ball
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that hides in circles
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of careening seasons
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slowly snuffs
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the sputtering spark
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this self
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fanning it to flame
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incense of its consumption
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spiraling prayers into heaven
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it isn't *words*
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that reach God's ear
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only poets suffer
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the utter madness
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of trying
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to balance one
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upon the other
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Jody Upshaw
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jupshaw@ai.uga.edu
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*
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what
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what is the matter
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what put that smile on your face
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what is it with you
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zita marie evensen
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bu016@cleveland.freenet.edu
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*
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two crows mean joy
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sitting on the grass
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a smooth, green slate
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that tickles my behind
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birds. i feel their anxious glances
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toward winter as they hunt and peck
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across the wide summer lawn
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near the trash can by the path
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perches the pair in question:
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preening plumange and postulating
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i watch the crows-- do they feel joy?
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looking for something i may have missed,
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they clumsily take to the air
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fly crows, fly
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fly to your joy
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i will try to fly
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to mine.
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Tom Witherspoon
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78witherspoo@cna.edu
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*
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Dump Him Ditty
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My girlfriends think he's
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sweet as cane,
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my Marky, Marky Maypo.
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We wonder why she
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humped him, dumped him,
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chucked him out the door.
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She stacks her lawyers
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for the fray,
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alack, alack a day.
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Oh, why'd she have to
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love him, leave him,
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silly, chilly bro.
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Karen Tellefsen
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kt1@cc.bellcore.com
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*
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Cheater
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we three
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laughed like lovers
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devouring one another
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with wayward glances
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an island within
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a rose hue circle
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scented in rain
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I loved her for loving you
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my friend, but
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even then her eyes
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were constricting pits
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focused in the distance
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she peered outside seeking
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a beast riding drum beats
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through the heart of the jungle
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her plane ascended in gray
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bound for the black soil
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of Costa Rica
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gold band sliding
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out of sight
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at night she played
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the taught streched skins
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of indian men
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sweat swirled
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into her navel
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drowning memories of you
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Jody Upshaw
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jupshaw@ai.uga.edu
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*
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Tiny fish
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Not something you can grasp
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I will stay with you a little while
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like the tiny fish near shore
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which flash silver
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and are gone.
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Ralph Cherubini
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ralph@wixer.bga.com
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*
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Bluebells
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There are no bluebells where you are
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so I send you memory of them
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see
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they are growing right over there
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no...to the left of the door
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quietly hidden in shyness.
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Ralph Cherubini
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ralph@wixer.bga.com
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*
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Dona Juliana
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Striding downtown in her red and gold knickers
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With black boots that clomp to the trucks and the traffic
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Dona Juliana sports no smile
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and her tousseled hair bounds to the four winds.
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But then a cloudy man crosses her reverie
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And a she pulls a smile from her back pocket.
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She dusts off the memories and the dull spots,
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Garnishes with spots of scattered scrapbook innocence.
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And she keeps the child's voice
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And she pops open the wild wide eyes.
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A third-rate man?
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A first-class gent?
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It makes no difference.
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Dona Juliana sees only this:
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Little boys and their big toys
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Looking for a playmate.
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Once rough players only she used to find.
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Now she can see the Don Juan signs
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Of too much familar eagerness
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Like great dane puppies who don't know their own strength,
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And maul with great oral fixations.
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Through many playmates and many checkmates
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Advice is bound to come:
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`Look only for the cloudy weathered ones.
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They need a burst of the sun.'
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Annette Young
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ayoung@seattleu.edu
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*
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clean
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i
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sink myself-
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mascara rag,
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beneath
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the eyelashes
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of the
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shower.
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swamp the salty
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dandruff
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of
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fish tails and
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hairclip scales
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from my head.
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wax fancy
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fragrances of
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surgeons and dreamy diners
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from my eyes.
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i floss the freishas
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from my teeth,
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scrape your face from
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my back -
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control my damaged
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ends with
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conditioner.
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no conditions.
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no control to damage.
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helen walne
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g93w5635@warthog.ru.ac.za
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*
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Fundamentalist
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It is hard to think there is no hand behind it all,
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chess-piecing us through versatile maneuvers.
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Here I thought that I would never see your face
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again in life,
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and here you are, just when your presence is a
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necessary move.
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There must be someone to be grateful to,
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but in His structured absence,
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I will beam on you, you curly-headed
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queen's knight calling out,
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Can that be you?
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Jennifer M. Parker
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jmparker@Isis.msstate.edu
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*
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propagation of error
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sandstone gargoyle
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perched on a cathedral's spire
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winged three-toed monster
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medieval gothic art
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cracked by catapult rock
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restored improved
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by master guildsmen
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limestone gargoyle
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leaning against a cathedral's spire
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winged four-toed monster
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ravaged by time and acid rain
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rebuilt meticulously
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repeatedly polished
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by men of craft
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plastic gargoyle
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hanging from a cathedral's spire
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winged five-toed monster
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copied by craftiest of men
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computer enhanced
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mass produced
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polyethylene gargoyle
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with long neon hair
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multi-toed monster swinging
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from the rear-view mirror
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of a totally rad
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Edsel
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zita marie evensen
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bu016@cleveland.freenet.edu
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*
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amaranths
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you melt-my-heart
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kick-ass bitchin' you
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coming here
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where
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i kneel
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weeding
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i
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smudged-face
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mud-caked hands
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unkempt hair
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i embrace
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hide among between
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green leaves
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you
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kiss me
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and whisper
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the amaranths are on fire
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zita marie evensen
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bu016@cleveland.freenet.edu
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