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A.
by E. Doyle-Gillespie

Drinking for two
in her
Night Cafe,
I listen to drag queens
pump street boys for latest
potions and love indiscriminate
down by the harbor warehouse palace,
blacktalk project jabber,
and screaming blue siren laments that slice through
her prose like rain
And she talks to me through moving hands
and sad red curls that leave her mercifully blind,
mercifully lost, in
Klimpt and Rilke, so
that I seem to her like Odysseus,
Kerouac
and Jesus Christ Himself
carrying this stone up my own Golgotha




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Document last modified on: 08/20/1998

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