the perception of youth lost
first to dust
then the needle
the past has a way
of finding you
thru your dreams
no matter what
thought I was going to
break the cycle
thru orgiastic fervor
I am a triumphant fool
roaring thru a tunnel
I swarmed up into
the alley
through a pot hole
now poetry is prayer
as I dream of kids
locked in washing machines
and guns in the palmetto
I hear the subtle Om
drifting almost silently
down a muggy alley
and calls on the phone
from Grandma
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