Thursday, September 9, 2010

PARADE, Part 2 (for Nada Gordon)

Be where the thighs of marches
are stomping on your neck.

Be the electric battle axe barbaric
but unreal, old fashioned.

Be the stack of bills folded
in the fattest wallet snatched.

Be the rutty fingers fumbling
with twenty minutes of wet matches.

Be the popular belief in public
knowledge, collective shame.

Be the boogie woogie pianist
in a cave condemned and cool.

Be the exotic dancer buying
Sugar Daddies a dollar each.

Be all you can break with a bat,
scrub with a brush, or win with a bet.

Be where the soil sops up the oil
and love the winners leave behind.

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