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Jul 17
the cold lake water sits in my bones
the plywood violin plays open highway blues
the fear of 23 coming up
and water, water, water

Summer sun in books, pages of salt
a dream of Buddha, Dharma, cult
and strangers’ love letters on
typewriters, ink dancing on black pages now
the killing of Butterfly Joe on
Denver roads and New York benzedrine
a very literal poem including
punks, Derry, football,
poetry read by angelic voices and naked wonders
dreams about Neal and I being cops
they all wore red in Oregon
a wedding missed soon
cold brew coffee and Janis Joplin
white ink,
uncomfortable touch, eyes glued on life.
Marco
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Marco  22
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