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Voices

The doctor doesn't seem to understand.

Says I'm off. Not quite right.

Thin sheets are always talking to me.

Voices of old French philosophers and
Pompous Englishmen discussing some
Colorless Male Burden.

Killings and Sexings have been whispered
Across candle light by thin wild haired
Depressed Americans who rock menacingly

Staring at the sky. Waiting for black birds
Eyeballs and blood

Baritone Black men tell me about blues
Grassroot hallucinations speaking through
Hazy browns and chaotic melodies

"Jazz," she says, "Strange Fruit,"
She Says.

Women talk of the domestic
This fucking wallpaper
That fucking husband

Doctor just doesn't seem to understand.
I refuse to enter a library until all these
Voices wait their turn

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