tables

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furthermore
      the frantic people live on rice
          walking fast
      eatin ducks
killin hoards of loaves
of tadpoles and clothes
on lines of dryers in heat
in waves, obedient, dosed
    closed

but
    the farmer raises pigs
        drinks beer
    plows
has a table
and guests




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foreign through sight

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these people that I see,

  when they walk with their flutes
  staying at crosswalks

  while children on bicycles with their playtime charm
  discuss biographies about great trees,
  gladden at icecream and harvest the
  plums so gradually in plenty

get ready for the winter the way squirrels
do, remember the
old
holidays




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cotton gin

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All right – this is a song about the cotton gin:

the cottton gin … the cotton gin …

All right – I made that up, there aint no song about the cotton gin, I made that up; but there ought to be a song about the cotton gin; I got a feeling that if any of you write a song about it that it will do well;




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the sojourn, the days

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the streamlined boat sits in the dock.

the tv cameras take pictures of it.

the boat has a captain,
the captain has children,
the children have friends;

they have parents,
who have tickets
to ride on the boat…
the boat has an engine!

the engine has a maintenance staff.
the staff loves pizza
which was invented in Canada,

where people with tickets live –
na, na, na, na … Canadians never travel




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fox bark too

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king green dom hill damp
                  side down
   barking                  below
              fog through    dogs
             night
            A-lee
and campaign song tavern played
    pintMany
    hunter tender dew autumn
June
day cool hill damp fox bark too




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tie onto the floor

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the deliciousness of a juice

             was

  all the woman needed to
bring the child’s friends and birthday party
            to a place and way she

       had hoped    from her childhood
that
her
kids
would one day have … bicycles and
            tracking MUD
             through the kitchen, and
         her
            husband throwing his tie onto the

            floor, wrestling the kids, throwing
       baseballs with the kids
                            ( not yelling because
                                         of
                                         shattered windows)




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mrs. zimmerman’s saffron

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me and my brother donny used to run in the summertime. it was

good, the smell of air
        and little old mrs. zimmerman’s potted saffron on her porch.

donny would knock on her door and talk a hundred miles an hour; he would tell her

about catching crayfish down in the creeks and sexual couples behind the skating rink.
                ( old lady mrs. zimmerman liked his stories, I believe, but that one )

.
.
.
I guess I was too young to
know for sure, but I have a feeling that
she had lost the man in her life;

she never said as much to donny but herself talked about the

sock hops and the elvis and the being so special that she got to go behind the

soda fountain where the soda jerk poured smiles and syrups.



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