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Untitled ethan beal-brown

The photo marquee and Blasting roses pass us On this boulevard of mania Which extends past cloudy Show tunes and baby teeth That litter the ground. Lipstick smiles and canvas bag Caresses, to each her own While the rest of us spin. Which strikes me as the First time I’ve mentioned

My childhood since I left home, The first time the faint ocean smells Wafted from the shore, inland, to meet me Here where there are no smells But those of the city and burning rubber And waiting, the smell of waiting Which is post-nasal drip and stained mornings. Whole moments refuse to parcel out The magnolia trees outside my apartment Thrust their roots deep beneath the pavement Into the rocky soil below. Half spoken words drift in the air Like parade balloons in the town parade of 1974. These two feet cement themselves together Sodden testimonials to the passing of evenings Asphalt heat waves and This is all too much.

Issue 45 Fall 2011  

Clerestory Journal of the Arts

Issue 45 Fall 2011  

Clerestory Journal of the Arts

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