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Poem: Bushy Brow Girl From The Book Festival 

She had thick, black, bushy eyebrows
Reminded me of a an old cigar-chompin', bingo number-reader named Moe
A perfectly-too-small-to-fit-fedora,
leveled on her head
Beautifully worn—sundown jeans—were strategically torn, patched, and
torn again,
tucked into rusty suede boots with orange fringe,
an olive green rucksack sat high upon her shoulder

I waited
I waited
I heard
I-21
Yeah, I knew,
all along

Still, we spoke of Steppenwolf and Venice, and our love of German lit,
her intellect betrayed by her innocence
She laughed a throaty laugh and her black bushy brows beat me down, but
not before I became a schoolboy again, not before
she called me an author

At a roadside dive named The Furnace
she asked me for a special potion,
asked me to give me to her
We sipped whiskey neat with ginger ale backs and
tamed dangerous dogs
I couldn't help to howl, yet was
forced to turn all the lights up bright,
her amazing bushy brows darkening any glow

Trapped, yet so free, I could only think of
Avalon and fire-forged bingo balls
breaking glass ceilings of ascetics

Gustav and Arthur
didn't have shit on me

Her thick, black, bushy eyebrows
ruled the rue

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