Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #6                         Page 43
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It's all the same in the shadow of dreamtown there is no reason to rush 
daylight has made its play the game was on but now it's not the
hipsters are done clipping the wings of syntax they have drifted out of 
the room thank god it's our turn we are the long haired aliens from the 
recent past we have always been here with our soft accents and we do 
not care we do not make waves this is the third way the silent path 
inside our heads a muted trumpet sings miles davis does the hand jive 
in the blue afternoon a couple of south american overcoats slip past I 
follow them in the mirror behind the bar which is teeming with gold 
dust and old ghosts -- the past lives everywhere in the fixtures in the 
walls in the shadow of dreamtown the past slips through the cracks 
outside a taxicab slows down, down to a halt a man gets out he is tan 
as a deer 

What I like about this place you like about this place which is why we 
like each other the smoke the beer cheap shots of brown whiskey 
people who have no names so what neon light sails across the tabletop 
like migrating birds this place is quiet as heaven on a sunday afternoon 
everybody's gone to the hamptons I guess a woman at the bar is 
peeling lemons over by the juke box a man is trying to explain some 
complicated matter to some other man what's the use the bartender 
shrugs his shoulders he has incurious eyes his skin is smooth as 
eggplant he is polishing glasses he is not an unobservant man he is 
scrupulous though he's seen it all and keeps his trap shut the ticktock 
continues irregardless irregardless -- yes we have seen it all lost in the 
afterglow we disturb nothing it's all the same this is the shadow of 

A day a month a life slips by  a fly lands on the table, let it
  George Wallace