Thorns Upon The Alien Corn

Here, in the city of jazz,
the tigers in my dreams
weep neon tears.

I awaken each morning
to the soft moans and
murmurings of the restless dead.
Fine hard snow falls upon the city.

The world strikes
a single note:
C flat..

This has nothing
to do with sex,
or the Kabbalah,
or the nature
of irrational numbers.

by David Kowalczyk

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