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You, Naropa

You, Naropa

c1979 by S.M. Plottner

Jazz-tight eyebrows,
Whitman beard, Buddha eyes
Smooth as Burma jade,
You, Naropa, built your own
Temple, from mother's howls,
Harlem roaches, dooryard
Lilacs and didactic lysergic

I worshiped beneath
Your stone stomach dreams.

But once you pissed
Like me, and laughed,
You laughed, Naropa,
In Washington Square,
You revved through Jersey.
Your stomach churned
Swallowed feelings until
You choked vomit

I worshiped beneath
That splattering profit.

Go forth from here

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