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John Allen |
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the man the man from detox had a wrist slim but taut with bulging veins ripe and pulsating with the tanned authority of failed age. he crumpled newspapers like old ambitions and after our discussions he'd lay his head on bundles of them. i thought walking home about his unwashed hair bathing in the sordid paper waters of contemporary news, the ageless wood of a park bench. scandalized pigeons must have chirped all night, swooping around his dreams marlene marlene's rosary beads hung sweating from the smooth skin tone which seemed a dark pap smear screaming for a heretic's grace. she gave me a little newspaper, "the daily bread", and seemed surprised with rolling eyes that i could quote christ. she talked in melted avenues of steaming dissipation through which the martyrs seemed to scream. she carded me with the hollow of her eyes. she swayed in her chair like a chicken and stared through vistas of smoke laced divinity. maybe when she touched those pipes she felt a little bit closer to god. "she smoked herself silly," my roommate said with fearful contempt. perhaps this is true. though her swaying carried me between heaven and hell [Index] |
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Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005 |
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