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Sound poets
that don't sound like
withered narcissists -
that's America
to me. On
to the next chump.
It retains philosophy
as an extravascular
activity,
this fatal habit
of smoking while
singing. Blue moons . . .
don't have 'em in the
nineties, but
the fifties
bound them
to soporific bleats.
This way . . . dalliance
with puritan exoskeleton:
Pop balloons,
they go pop
with demonic pitch.
Younger than
driving age, then
younger than
drinking age, but
younger than drinking
age, not necessarily
too young.
This is a private
fasceme. Pushed back
into the
mind-altering stages
of youth, sublimity
takes on many moldy
customs
to forge the hack.
It's claustrophobosophecy
on Broadway, all
naked and humming
when everyone's dressed
for football.
Stalling courage
fakes it, in the wind.
The stadiums pop.
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