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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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