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July 24, 2016

Time By Kwame Dawes

We are at the edge of the madness,

sitting and swelling warm under the skin.

So you think that shuffling and press

of bodies against the fence will end?

You think the wail of that trumpet,

dizzy zig-zag over the tracks, leaping

off the tracks, doing their own junk,

not giving a damn about lining

up to something set out; you thinkļ£°

this is where we are going? Listen,

hear the chaos of that drum stinking

up the joint; we are crazy, brain missing

that screw they put in, it's gone, man,

and this madness is where all peace done gone.

- - Three Poems

Posted by gerardvanderleun at July 24, 2016 11:12 PM. This is an entry on the sideblog of American Digest: Check it out.

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