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Beaver Dam Rocking Chair Marathon Tour Tour Log: August 20th Featured poetry by William Buckley
Just because the stars are turned on ... does it mean it's a necessity? (V. Mayakovsky, "Listen") Cut from the tin foil of stars in our mud-flowered sky, our feelings in metal burn in the blast-furnaces. In trucks caked with coke millhands and wives, bundled from the wet woods of their homes, and hunched blades of our whipped grasses wrestle in snows. We stand on the old soils. And to the cons and machinery, to the abandoned small farms and glass-shattered storefronts, we keep diaries in our pockets, pack dream-scraps in trunks. Powers have been meddled with. Bankruptcies are poetic. Steel hearts are still forged in the night. Heavy Mothers and Papa Gunslingers. Stiff White-Collars and Old Puritans. Bored Commuters and Machinists. Raise your umbrellas to the red snow and radiation of rains. Bring in the children! Take the animals to barns! Cover the gardens and make for the basements! For the lost heartlands have been found. And when the soils get ready for torsion, when the dark heartland light breaks open our cages, be prepared to hear the Lake in your bones, and the howl of las lobas.
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