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The Playwrights Forum > The Art & Craft of Writing > Poet's Corner : Critique my Poem > Wounded Angel

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 Posted: Fri Feb 11th, 2011 07:09 pm
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timmy
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Joined: Fri Jun 9th, 2006
Location: Oz, Minnesota USA
Posts: 1079
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Jim slipped quietly
into his clear Bacardi
151 in the back corner
of the Wisconsin tavern
back in 1978; his breath
smelled like woodsmoke
and he laughed if he lit
a match near his mouth
his eyes would explode

He seemed trapped
like a ghost, haunting
places from Viet Nam
that no longer existed

Once a month or so,
if he was drunk enough,
he used to tell stories
about shooting yellow
children or visiting the whore
houses on free evenings

But mostly Jim cried
about his being alone,
his dreams of blood
and all the stones
he carried with him

about castles and one-
eyed-Jacks and who
was burdened and who
was dead and he used
to look around his table
and he knew it wasn’t
him, but he never had
the guts to admit he was
nothing but a statistic

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