060308A
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The silence
that is a slow strangulation,
of the kind that makes drifters
out of would have been heros,
kicks at the remains
of a dream,
the way horses hooves
kick at graveyard dirt.
Whatever it was
left only the shock wave,
convulsive spasms,
fractured longings,
cancellations,
all the kinds of broken
that make mundane cliches
from any type of romance.
Getting up in the morning
from the gas chamber floor,
****vering among the corpses,
a soldier without a uniform,
trying to find a name and a rank
searching among the things
that whisper their defections
among conspiracies to betray.
You put your coins in,
and the slot machine of love,
comes up one lemon
spoiling a row of cherries.
If you can find any more coins
you get a chance to play again,
pulling down the reluctant arm
as if that too is another act of god.
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080308A
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Trays of instruments
are arranged,
for the sake of conversions
of the flesh.
Surgeons cut through
reluctant layers of belief,
pu****ng aside the pages
of the various catechisms.
There was nothing to save,
that could not be cauterized,
and nothing could be joined together
that is not stitched and sewn.
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