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Amongst a flurry of skattered receipts in my parent's failed attempts to find evidence of a purchased dress model, a folded strip of thin paper was thrust at me.
"Do you know what this is?"
"Umm, nope" I said as I scanned the calligraphy for some trace of recognition. I should have exclaimed, "Yes! Yes! It's poetry!" And the best kind of poetry at that: poorly written, scribbly, unfinished, wonderfully confusing and enigmatic FOUND poetry!

Rain
The Wind through the trees at night
The summer sun dawning
The cold frost - BIGHT (sic? BRIGHT/BITE?)
the birds done chirping
Along with the humans
They are ready for bed
BANG, SMASH
"What was that" cried Jonny

It was thunder said MaryLee to her younger
...

I’m picturing my troubled teenage sister bonding with farmer’s sons in cornfields over hash, rye and collective poetry; or she and her best friend who had just been released from rehab up all night smoking cigarettes in our garage, drinking herbal tea, collecting sentence fragments, remembering cornfields. Or maybe I abused too many substances to remember highschool.

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lolamatopoeia

July 2009

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