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Jeffrey Allen

28 reasons to bet dust, its depths           

 

 

Christmas wipes the daily gyroscope hope like the out-of-state driver

with a limp Vistavision. The Everglades cope, Lou trades late for a lady drink,

says he’s on dope and women wings. You’ll keep him where trust imps

rides in Spanish, out-wizard Mary on some young nose. Love’s advertiser

is in a “Hey Downtown” ad mix of lucky matador and rodeo dock nymphs.

 

Fontaine asks Joan,

“Still on for heaven?”

She blows that worker’s eyes

to diamonds and spades.

They love the mongrel pimps

with the tainted show queen kids,

throw interstellar schemes at

men in their walk, announce

the panther’s Senorita, the

newly discovered children.

 

Her dope’s bustin full of lovers that bless Rex and Rose, sock that someday

crier who found out how to cane. Take of this page, feet sweat the news.

Mary, she don’t give change to her man. “Sure,” she said, “Your uptown train left

 

again, there’s a broadway bus, your Harlem rose arrival.”

 

Her canes grow to own, to ace them, perform.

 

She names it in dreams.

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