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It is one thing to kill yourselfTo Anne Lombardo Ardolino's previous piece     The ParkTo Anne's next piece

Not the West Village

From the woodworks of the cockroach hotels 
Slime Sophocle's misfits 
you know 

Eddie Piss and the gang 
To pour upon the streets 
in the nite 
when the dirt 
doesn't show 

                    o    n 
on and on 
till night is gone

Past Sunday morning, Ave C and 8th St. 
to the riverbanks and broken glass 

you have no crescendos 
your sun leaves me waiting 
for the wild nite dreams 

of railraod tracks 
deserted shacks 
and weeds that grow in the sidewalk cracks 

skid rows 
and the wind blows 

from the midnighte beaches 
to my tin pan alley 

where I dream 
out the dark night hole 

where I lost my soul 
and tossed my empty dope bags 

Shed no tears mother moon for your vagrant rays 
they'll be reborn 
this early morn 
to became train whistles 

drolling blues for me and my people 
who remain 
unled children  
searching for something forbidden 

like Pied Piper 
tinsel rainbows 

Peter Pan and Neverland 
and Tinker Bell 
and pixie dust 
to make them fly 

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