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A Special Edition of The East Village
The Suspect The light that lights me is not steady And polar, but shifty, like the flickering Beams of the police flashers brightly hitting My mutilated wax bust of John Wayne. The germs of my best thoughts hatch ab ovo. Under questioning, I'll throw out a word or two Merely to be suggesting something, Just don't ask me to say anything under oath.
Tom Clark Index