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Oct 2014
That as a poet one is ******
to the mirth of a petty merchant
peddling simple wares to simpler folk
in the smallest corners,
the most hidden corners,
of the most foreign city.

Always dreaming of wealth,
and the big one.
That if only this sacred middle man
could sling his silicious gear
with enough guile and haste

He could transcend the conditions
of the deep alleys,
forever and finally
reaching the grandiose crowds.

It is there that the street fares
are in bloom, popping with mysterious,
and magnificent, and monumental oddities,
and there is no word for abundance,
as each day would provide
for ones deepest
and most primal lust for sweetness.

But it is the foreign city
of back streets and narrow alleys,
**** and bread crumbs,
pigeon ****, sleeplessness,
that breeds such acute
and worthwhile perceptions
which one is compelled enough
to share

and (hopefully)
transcend them.

this is the common dream,
a fools dream,
and it is a fools tongue
which serves to lash
those who dream it,
and those who disobey.

We are all very foolish.
Written by
Jory  Chicago
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