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A Poem: Points West 

Frost was wrong. It's not

about the road not taken;

it's about the parade unmet,

the paradise unspoken.

It's about John Ford

on the mesa with

a long lens, shooting

John Wayne and Claude

Jarman Jr., horses

at full gallop. It's about

butterfly dreams and

Bukowski on the bar

stool in Reno, spinning

tales for some blonde

in a leather jacket.

It's about peanuts

and applejack, and

Chief Bender taking

the ball in the ninth

against the Yankees.

It's an Americana

romp with a racing

stripe, a pendulum

on the down low,

Chicago and the last

block, the Slovak

section of Cleveland

bleeding copper,

where we lay the brick

and quit trying to pretend

we were tired and

lofted the Schlitz, killed

the pig, prayed hard

to the Lord of the Flies,

and to the Jersey nights

and said hello to the

reality of the pimps

on Van Houten Ave

and the pledge of

allegiance and to

the sorry realization

we'd never cross the

Mississippi River again

standing on two feet.

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