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poem 17 – 12-7-14


i sat on the curb

with a burrito

made up of angst pimples

i knew the nameless faces

that walked on by

on gold chain avenue

the venue where our dreams exist

twilight bliss

carrying around

our Burroughs adding machines

with a swagger

no amount of money can buy

we purchased our goods

at the dollar store

we stocked up

our eyes followed the list

our hands wrote

with our intellect

not our hunger

mistakes are for the ones

that could afford them

we rolled our reefer cigarettes

once we got to the center

of our rented walls

with bones at our feet

and God watching over us

the rainbow didn’t possess the copyrights

to the colors

we knew more then the Real Outsiders

that market place would collapse

my gang of proletarians waited

alleged smug thugs they called us

these streets were ours

as much as the aristocrats

would like to differ

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