Kim Peter Kovac
Howling After3 In the roaring winter dusk, the ghostly clothes of jazz, as heavy as the moon, dance under the battered bridge
listening to the terror of wartime (crazy time, animal soup of time). Heartless horrors, waking
nightmares illuminated in supernatural darkness by the flashing alchemy of the trembling cosmos.
Scholars of war find the ash of poetry on mountaintops in caves, a hopeful little bit
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Found poem; remixed from Allen Ginsburg’s “Howl”
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