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Stranded on Jamaica Street


by Samuel Derrick Rosen


There are horse drawn carriages, there are gentlemen in top hats,
it's the turn of some century, before souls were stored in jars.
A man who prays to enigmas, seeks redemption within words,
still dreams of his wife, of the lilt of her voice on his ignorance,
of the touch of her hand on his spine. There are many tempted

but for some unknown reason could never turn to the image
of an earthly and so human god. A shape of a man with a conscience,
stranded on Jamaica Street, with something he knows instinctively
he can never quite possess. The merchants and the thieves debate,
how acidic is the milk of want. Synthetic insurgents grow distraught,

the Communist bookstore almost aflame with heavenly fire,
the signs point to nothing and say that blue is an evil colour,
that gravity has no weight. Some derelict as Al Jolson,
in blackface sings Mammy, shakes the palms of his hands
to all the numerical poets and metaphysical accountants

who'd fish out their own brains to spend a day in a padded cell!
Inside a random hole in history the witch doctors suffer
crimson mentalities of dream-like and highly decorated fools.
The cappuccino pimps, with their dandelion slaves,
decide not to throw down ropes but to offer instead the privileges

of a business-class oblivion. Meanwhile, the millennials
and their harpies catch a glimpse of the Harvest Moon, the merchants
eat their cheese, the thieves drink their wine. Cartoon corpses seek
something, anything, that resurrects among shadows and blind eyes,
the willingness to suffer a lack of suffering, the quantum slips of nature.
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