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Ronnie Ronnie
Yes Papa
Entering Politics
No Papa



Telling a lie
No Papa
Show me your flag
Ha Ha Ha
Lets Cherish Childhood
The storm moves away, and spectral figures wisp up off the asphalt in its wake. The bluish-grey of the sky sets a backdrop to the show of nature. The dialogue writes itself; actors take up their costumes, say their lines and drink the poison of outward movement. Rising- the actors scream out in the sound of art as they evaporate into the air; leaving room for the ones beneath them to rise and fade in the sound of expression. The inanimate world bears witness and lets out a deep, tension releasing sigh.

The street is a cemetery- that which lives is an actor among dead souls in the rain. Souls who are kicked up like the dust on the furniture of childhood homes. Souls who reside as nameless characters within memories that don't belong to the one remembering them.

The storm rolls back in; the performers rehearse, and the cups are refilled.
I listen to the performance- again and again...
I'm back.
This is an old one, written a few months back.
Piercing light through shattered windows;
I wake to smell of the ocean and the plucking of guitar strings by the old Cuban man who spends his mornings in the hall playing for money.
Turning over, I found the indent in the mattress where you laid as the false fingernails and caked makeup of some other profession, smelling like coffee, smoke, and the yellow essence of strangers.
I turn over to my other side- looking for my wallet, digging my hands between the mattresses, I find that, too, isn't there.
Rustling of Da Di Da
Me Me needa needa
Shaper shooper shida
Head dead tumble tun
Riddle ****** Moon
Chirp and chirp and chirp
Da Di Da Di Da
Wing feather beak
Tangle mangle sick
Claws flaws tiny tiddle
Woozy coozy for little
Weather thither turn
Me Me in pain
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