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Silence Exile and Crumpets
 
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Friday, July 12th, 2013

Time Event
12:53a
THE POET TO HER YOUNG COMRADES 9
So many fights we can't afford to lose
so fight we must. With blood upon our hands
perhaps. Important each one understands
it is the fight, but not the blood, we choose.

Fight that's our dialectic changed to will
we do not fight to win, perhaps to save
some fragments of what Money would enslave.
Freedom and love. I do not want to kill

Reluctance has a price we might not pay
but others. Pox and ignorance and ash.
Unending brutal tyranny of cash.
Perhaps it does not matter what I say.

Blood answers me and sneers. Intoxicates
Kills innocents, yet throws down nightmare states.
1:20a
THE POET IN HER SIXTY FIFTH YEAR
I count my years. Like coins that I would spend.
And neither hoard nor waste. My drooping purse
like ageing flesh goes slowly bad to worse
Yet nothing seems quite ready for the end.

Most days are bright as stones. Wrapped in gold wire.
My glory friends dance round me. Word by word
they come to me so lush, sometimes absurd
this flood of language. Some day I will tire

but this was not that day. Spice, pizza, sun.
Protection racket hiss of urban geese.
Bustle of market. There's a sort of peace
that goes with crowds. I feel I've just begun

to love this world, this work. My heart won't break
to leave if I am bold, live wide awake.

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