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August 11, 2005

Seventeen Years

17 years plus of incomplete poems
Bold legacy of my halfwit journal.
Some raps in rhythms unrecognizable.
Confessions, impressions I’d rather deny.

Life's a complaint of itinerate storms
Downpouring madness and leaving me soaking.
Giving me weight so I feel myself walking
Dripping by conscience I’d rather be dry.

Dozens of dozens compacted with winzip
Clutter directories deep on the drive
Squirreled and squished away squelched in my memory
Leaving a deepness I dropped for my babies

Inward summations delivered to no one
Or no one to puncture my aura for fear
I grimace and stomach and savor my bile
And smile as if Charlie were actually here.

Posted by mbowen at August 11, 2005 09:19 AM

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