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Three New York Poems III. Memorial Day, USA Once a month or so i am reminded how much of me is dying A 3AM roll from slumber into a ball an egg the first circle The pain won't subside ~not for five more days or so And so, i flip on tv where Once a week or so i'm greeted by residual voyeurism in high rotation from "the scene of the event" forensic professionals disoriented wounded unconcerned demised of blessed file footage As a blue moon rises my blood and tissue treacle from clothing like syrup counter clockwise spirals across porcelain white as an egg down the drain into the sea the first home While outside the Nablus Gate and just south of Megiddo blood and tissue trickle down tarmac edge toward rose coloured limestone, ancient home of sacrifice; are lovingly acquired swabbed blessed burned (Dust to ashes Ashes to dust.) Our blood hangs in the atmosphere like hamsin like rain in the desert In a red and orange mandala we kill ourselves each other by waiting by living Most of us dont realize we're part of the circle.
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