This isn’t poetry. Don’t even accuse me of that. This is a rant.

I’ve lost my hat. I’ve committed adultery. I’m listening to chant.

I’m dancing naked in the streets of the city of Peace desiring that our

soliders come home. And the only thing that ever marches home is the ghosts

of those who have passed on before us. It’s the ghosts who make me dance.

It’s the dancing that brings me peace. It’s the chanting that makes me laugh.

It’s the laughing that allows me to cheat death. It’s the dying that allows

me to think. It’s the thinking that allows me to breath. It’s the breathing that allows me

to pray. To pray that the wicked leaders of our land repent and throw themselves into

the bottom of the deepest sea. It’s the land that makes me weap. It’s the children of chernobyl

who make me shake. It’s the shaking that me cry. It’s the crying that makes me lie. It’s the lying that

makes me hate. It’s the hating that makes to fly. It’s the flying that makes me ponder. It’s the pondering

that makes me…..

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