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this is still a page piece,
penumbras and exclamations peyote & amphetamines and my own pen still won't work for the pictureframes & all too many wds tis, tis yes, less a vision than sound and a breath since i call myself a writer and I scream and tell stories through someone else's voices. i know the words, the phrases, and the moves to set the revolution. A Heron alarm put out a score of hippies and most of their yuppie children rebelled and the writer became his own voice, talked about April & only a few cared to know-- "What in the hell"-- since he lost fascism & told us he hadn't a grasp of politics; prettily asked her if he could-- "does this have to do with me?" (i don't know, man: this is page poetry, they still joke about my talent,) so il migrio asshole sailed into Italy, talked about his FRIEND over the radio! "It's sinister," I laughed, 'cause that's another word altogether, I swore by the mighty Coltrane and wondered if the church's bricks are for sale, if they've slid off into some Pacific bank and are being auctioned off for bar-lines, if another spring-- (man, I'm telling you, they're just talkin': this is a page piece.) --get rid of all this prufrockian garble and take her home. & set the McCarthyites going. A Zimmerman turns Christian, rails Paterson for a hurricane, finds a man without my pretense, (and i'm still calling myself a poet!) finds the city in a man, is a man, & waits for #35 to take him home.
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