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Bus 81

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suburban blight in

pink twilight

pitfalls of the stripmalls

outside Smith’s Falls where the strata

in Kanata has a big fight

with the starlight

on no account will a social

climber mount or count the cost

of the lost real diner

where the pie’s real & the skies feel,

booths like your dad’s old vinyl

recliner that’s la-z-boy

crazy boy things are getting hazy boy

where the ice cream & the

nice dream that you

were alive & not under the

impression you were meshing

with reality that has no lesson

no virgin cold first pressin

cause it’s less than a whisper

less than a vesper, getting real

desperate not to feel so

separate from anything real

that you’d give your kingdom,

sunset on the boulevard

put it on the Visa card

or the master of plaster

that dries ever faster

than tears on your fears

of forgetting the masters

Leonardo, Frida Kahlo,

Michelangelo & Pinocchio,

Juliet & Romeo, lost in

the afterglow of the

stripmalls and the pitfalls

in the distance, on a radio

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