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Self-Portrait at Twenty-One


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After Housman


When I was one and twenty
and full of beauty, hate
and arrogance, we tripped
on acid, left the known
and packed old coins to pawn.
Traveled to Memphis. Eight-
a-night motel: local
porn in rooms, all owned
by an Indian family.

We drank Old Crow. The gun
on the nightstand. Fucked. The King
was reason to come, excuse
to leave ideas of home.
An old bluesman on Beale
told me the heart’s not mine.
The heart’s not, but the flesh,
the muscle. Pump and beat,
"’tis true, ’tis true," he sang.


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post #228
bio: john ball
perma-link
4/3/2008
09:10

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April - National Poetry Month 2008

Category List
Angels
April - National Poetry Month 2005
April - National Poetry Month 2007
April - National Poetry Month 2008
April - National Poetry Month 2009
Blather
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Correspondence
Demons
February Smackdown!
Here, I'm trying to be Funny
My personal favorites
Novel Excerpts
Random Memoir Fragment



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Please Support My Run in the NYC Marathon
A Fortunate Age (trailer)
Albums. Landlines. Square television.
I don't love anything, not even Christmas
My favorite place in the world
How do you Plea?





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