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Feb 2014
The city is a slow falling hammer.
We are the absent gods
splitting headaches,
Rolling paper rituals,
puddle jumping,
spitting off rooftops.

The city is a wounded knee
for my friends with heavy hearts.
My friends who cant
stand to be caught sober,
Or talking about it.
No one here is weak.

This Tyrant is a forgotten message.
A prayer hidden in the coming spring.
It is plans for planning to leave,
or make the time pass easy
through the creeping boredom in
each drink for our handsome health.

It is the horror and heft
of my daily habits
under coin, sulking
at the bottom of a well.
An adaptation of a song I had written recently.
Written by
Jory  Chicago
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