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The sky is a purple growth falling
citrus bleeding wash of color
blending the cobalt pool
The pool is the father
the sun is the holy ghost
the eye is blind
          I am...
       Embedded within the soft
       cotton wall of half death:
       half life is filthy
in a far shaking tower
in a black sea of sand
in a sick grey mist
the loss and sense of loss
slides then throbs and hatches
between our mothers children
and the mothers love love smack
love us as children
Cutting honey with milk
dripping and bruising gentle
lips heavily veined
Exposed to a sample of shame
       Rusted sighs hung like jewels
       in the air from the core of shame
       from the snot danse core
       of contamination
Goats with horns are smiling
Starving fathers unblown horns
lay quiet against the lips
Possibility of food exists
They touch the tar and spirit
and minty sprigs of hair
and chin and some bone
flesh on the head
tar of the head
Dehydrated thoughts are cold
falling like teeth and like teeth
enameled and pasted with twine
       tied to dry stick
       My God...
       Do they remember
waved and wickered and flagged about
in a parade on the hot day
hot hot dusty day
of the dead
- Ron Diebold


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