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Thursday, May 29, 2014

Talent Poem

Carl Hicks' Head

Those who choose to leave
must do so ecstatically, thought
the philologist, Carl Hicks.

The gun, the seductive pill,
the very comprehension of
reality must play into it all.

If death be a fear-mongering
whore, then life should usurp it,
Hicks surmised through his fog.

Bleeding because he’d hit his
head in the dark while pissing,
he looked in the mirror.  He’d

Been up all night reading an
account of the short life of
Gavrilo  Princip, his favorite.

It takes all kinds. If Berle Marks
lifted the wag from our midst, so
what?  War has the same cruelty.

Did Marks take the wag home
on terms they’d both reconciled
as true to form, absolute and fine?

Outlaws are born to die, Carl
Hicks thought; though the wag
was weak, Ted knew the score.


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