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A Warning to My One Year Old Grandaughter Prepare yourself for earnest lads who'd woo you with their words of yearning, for fervent swains --just like their dads-- who will declare their hearts are burning, prepare for suitors bold and shy, who every ruse and ploy will try, get ready dear, for love-sick guys, who'll stir the air with their deep sighs, --no surprise my dear you have your mother's eyes. George Lally ©2007 all rights reserved Another Way (To BFS) Our paths may cross some of these days in search of separate yearnings, Yours to the strand and crashing waves, and mine to mountain turning, who can fathom our desires? So deep...... beyond discerning, Each seeks a different paradise... or new, or a returning. -G. Lally ©2006 all rights reserved |
Villa
It's time, I've learned enough, I'm going from the world awhile to my imagined Villa, I cannot wait to see it, Queen Ann's lace, and careless daisies, will smile as I pass, On a hill, happy ruminants, deep peace in a heaven of grass. -G. Lally ©2006 all rights reserved |
Pale Spring
(for GBL) A squirrel scolds,
I do not start, and daffodils don't shout out loud, the surly trees refuse their part, with leaves clenched tight in buds ungiving, they know no joy in love or living; A colder, paler, Spring, since you depart, the air warms slowly, and the heart G.Lally ©2006 all rights reserved |
After Frost The soil is lovely, moist, and deep where sprightly earthworms plow, The April rains upon us seep, Though we don't feel them now, No need to laugh, no need to weep, No feelings, sight, or sound, And no more promises to keep beneath the fertile ground. - George Lally ©2007 all rights reserved |
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Tech Support When I have crashed or got confused, you were always there to walk me through it, and thanks to you I've learned some things, like files, and fonts, and virus scan, (I've learned from you there's nothing to it) If I need to, I can clear my history now, and when my disk is fragmented, you taught me what to do to make it right, So teach me (please!) to operate this num lock; I need it as I try and try, to lock the numbness in, so I won't cry. Alex died. - George Lally ©2006 all rights reserved |
Little Note My modesty's
well earned in a lifetime free of acclaim, when I croak no admiring bog, nobody knows my name - George Lally ©2006 all rights reserved |
Ambivalence
I don't know
whether to call you
- your life so full, so fast - I'm like an old man in a cross walk, and you, waiting for me to pass with one foot hard on the brake, ...and the other foot on the gas. - George Lally ©2007 all rights reserved |
'Letter To My Brother In San Francisco' Dear David, The rumor's true. Winter has wrapped our sick and tired world in the customary bandages. Soon enough they'll be discolored - fouled by the residue of our strivings. But for today, all is wrapped in a healing whiteness. It's just as you remember: The stillness of yard and street, the trees transformed, the quiet! -G. Lally ©2007
all rights reserved |
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The Game By Jame Locke While winter trees aspire in slender bars
To jail my eyes, embattled children Wrestle grass and tangle sun And leg and rolling ball-- Now here, now there, now here again. Amid the shouts to "Kill 'em, boys," To "Wake up, boys; dontcha want to win it Boys," they strive to breach the limit. Lookers turn with leveled fingers To their brows to fight the sun; Despite the anguished glare, The sunlight dances on their hair; Shadows hide beneath the hands That hold the sky away. On a distant electric line along The endless horizon, a solitary bird Is sparkling in the light. It has perched to set a wind-stirred feather And to look about. But the violent claps And the horrid shouts of the scrambling boys Frighten the observing bird, And it prepares to fly. It prepares to fly As do the airy ball and the very wanton I. By Jame Locke The Game -©2007 James Locke Urban Magic
A
conspiracy of gods protects the purlieus
Of my home and
yard. I am constantly
Under siege by the
forces beyond the row
Of dogwoods at the
top of the street.
I can feel the
inimical vibrations
From neighbors and
politicians and city
Managers and
occasional disseminators
Of religious
literature who prowl in packs
And even from
wayward groups of children
Who have lost their
innocence and though
Twelve years old may
as well be twelve hundred.
There is such sordid
knowledge in their eyes,
These enemies, these
collaborators
Against peace and
nature. They may dare
Look my
way, but they don't dare intrude
Because there is a
confederacy of gods
That protects the
paradisiacal perimeter
Of my heretical
hermitage. Pan rules
Over all. He lives
hunkered down on the
Front porch; his
terra cotta presence
Hides under the two
begonias, and under
The angel wings, one
can glimpse
The knobs that are
his horns, really
Antennae sending out
the "Do Not Enter"
Message,
subliminally conveying
"Restricted Area,"
Sancrosanct Precincts,"
"Holy Ground: Remove
your sandals
Or your presences."
His hairy haunches
And distended belly
suggest life within
These bounds,
crucifixes against vampires.
And under him are
the other members
Of the pantheocracy,
of the coven against
Cravens: there is
Francis (a pagan saint
If there ever was
one) under the bird feeder
Sending his winged
armies--his cardinals,
His jays and tits
and chikadees--out
To flash abrupt
wings in the eyes of anyone
Contemplating
interruption (or shitting
On their cars or
heads to make them think
Before succumbing to
such a fecund place.
They think, "What
does fecund mean anyway?")
There is Buddha who
we remember had his vision
Under a Bo tree who
is now under the hosta
Next to the
driveway. His temple is in
The triangle on the
second level of the yard,
The redoubt because
there is surely a war going on.
Those looking into
my jungle think rain forest
And want to cut it
down; they think Mexico
And want to steal my
land; they think
Africa and want to
enslave; they think weeds
And want to spray DDT or Agent Orange.
But they who violate
the
territory of'
My terrible
triumvirate, my Bermuda Triangle,
Never get out alive.
Gods only know where they go.
James Locke Urban Magic -©2006 James Locke |
Eustacia
By James Locke This poem
is
about Eustacia Vye of Return of the Native. It is about a particular
element in us all: the feeling of restraints, mediocrity, boredom,
whatever limits our ability to make life be extreme, maximum,
powerful
Eustacia,
You
are not happy with your lot
Ranging
about the heath
With
telescope and hourglass
Restless
to the bones and the nerves
Which
jangle in your skin
And
make you cruel and thoughtless
So
that you want to bite
Or
scratch something
So
it feels your presence,
Yours
alone.
Only
nineteen but subject
To
hot flashes already,
Unaccountable
breathing spells,
Hyperventilation
and dizziness
And
hellish temperatures.
You
wander under the stars
Momentarily
having to lean
Against
a bank for breath,
Extricate
your black hair
From
thorny furze,
Hate
the gods above
For
narrowing the universe
To
these few minutes,
To
these few inches of skin,
To
these few acres,
To
these few yokels
Who
have never felt
Anything
like the orgasm
You
constantly dream.
Where
is he
To
love you to madness,
To
match you blow for blow,
Expectation
for expectation,
Fantasy
for fantasy,
Until
you are finally satisfied
In
some brutal pornographic way.
For
us, you are the rich girl
Come
from the country,
Lost
in the underground
Of
New York or LA
Lying
nude finally
With
a broken neck,
Having
found the ultimate climax
Captured
on film with someone
For
whom your contempt
Made
you fully real.
You
are indeed Queen
Of
the very darkest night.
James Locke Eustacia - ©2006 James Locke Depth
This paper is more
than paper.
Which line is to be
followed
When there are
shadows cast
Down its whiteness
by a three o'clock sun
Outside my window?
And beyond only an
inch
The dictionary
world--
Each word a window
on reality:
Siege
Perilous says to me
Vacant seat
At Arthur's Table
Where Grailfinders
Sit.
Death to the weak;
Life to the meek.
It
Bears reminders
Of the stable
And the Paraclete.
There is Silenus,
Siegfried, or Silesia,
Sigismund,
Sikhism. or Sir Philip Sydney--
Place, poet,
providence, prurience, and potentates.
I see in the eye's
reaching tunnel
Whirling dancers
in exotic tents
Washed in
extravagant music--
Tinkling sounds
sifted through sheer gowns--
Below under the
winter mulberry tree.
Summer snakes climb
that tree to the roof
To sun in the eave,
To birth after
heated mating on the lawn.
A black dog runs
along the distant white fence:
K A L E I D O S C O
P E!
Branches of trees
swirl motionlessly,
Reaching out of
sight to sky,
Obscuring the fading
white sun
And other suns
And space
Beyond.
James Locke Depth -©2006 James Locke |
Dawning
I try to blame you for inaccuracies While you snore rough like the sea, Toss and turn out the night Empty of thought. Thoughts are what have kept me awake: Lighting the lamp, Setting the heat, Watching dawn flowers Bleed with the cold morning light, Revolving my head like a bird’s Observing yesterday’s things. I look with an unstilled mind for causes. Out of the chaos of your dreams A fire consumes every wild flower And clapboard house. The pitch field where lie bright cinders Is suddenly shadowed to the dark of Cocytus By a winging bird that fills your head. It grows gargantuan behind the nerve, And from the sweep of its angled fan It leaves green shoots unbudded in pleasant fields. Glimpses of sweaty arms swinging in the sun, And sounds of hammers striking sparks. By James Locke Dawning -©2006 James Locke
Home Gallery
___________________________________ I walk this gallery
of
Company and fall flat. These comrades never talk-- Smoke rings noose their fat necks. Some ballet belle is squared Like a gray flower walled And paired off with a hare Whose ears are much too long. Albrecht Durer comes here By proxy. The etched Daumier, slender tippler, Wobbles, the neverending Sipper of the wine cup; And I sup with a bull From Lascaux I don't know. On the other side, Audubon's still birds glide Into their nests. The rest Are marble heads bobbing Like green apples in tubs. I've discovered they are all Dead, and death is quiet Against the riot noise The stinging air can make In the whorled ear and head. These guests were brought to fill This deserted night-room, To be traders of time. But now they evade me Like shining rain running Off the fingers. Their stares Linger awhile then float Down--opaque silks draped Over abandoned chairs That hunch like hungry bears Quiet and intent. __________________________________ James Locke
©2007-
James Locke
|
| Evacuating
Diana
As if on cue And gray thunder Two cars packed The rain- I didn’t want to leave. Caught in the power To hear the howling Hands to the sky Now, my life Mass destruction This time, I cannot With my choices With the rain When everything I cannot leave Anywhere but here. The peripheral howling Diana came through At the trappings Now, my life is a deer Slowing. Diana came through But an event So undeniable- Not in my own heart Each poison barb Of life and death And bury it. The only ones Now, the moon grows, Poised to cut Far from the sea, And when I look back I turn back to my life, Gray thunder And my eye ~Mara Eve Robbins August 21, 2001 |
Preservation
Waking up in the morning I take the tears and catch them Wishing I could save this There they would not bite. But now I hold my tears And I sleep with them, Blow away ~M.E. Robbins (81901) The coated road A small gray cabin. An unexpected person. Which meaning should I take? Over and over I see you. I remember intimacy, increasing. A dream that seems familiar. ~M.E. Robbins |
Growing Memory There was a small garden on my fingertips All it took in the spring were four Leaning on the window I recall a Within that moment many smaller The same ones as me? Or entirely The train? The hood of the car? Either way, my kitchen is only a kitchen now Only brown cabinets and dirty linoleum. Sweep. Rinse. There’s nothing left to clean I water my garden. I look carefully Have we reached the place we I have to revel in the small blooms Today there is a sunflower under my Is that enough? Today I find your voice again, Is that enough? Today there is still a piece of Is that enough? Over and over, what seemed finished I refuse to be surprised anymore. I thought yesterday of that final week We lay on the grass in the sun, Now I cannot see the same way. I hope the sunflower is enough. ~M.E. Robbins |
Home Life Carrots I make a list for days I usually do. Part of what makes This is nothing like that. Instead I see a house I won’t miss those swans. I make a list in my head I don’t need to write down And on the back Porch swing ~M.E. Robbins July 2001 Two little girls Waterfalls and curls On this earth This year And the water I cried all the way to town You are with me As best as I plan A pink umbrella ~M.E. Robbins
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Archibald MacLeish (1892-1982)
Ars Poetica
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown--
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
*
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind—
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
*
A poem should be equal to:
Not true.
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—
A poem should not mean
But be.
John Donne (1573-1631)
A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning
As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls, to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"The breath goes now," and some say, "No:"
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears;
Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refin'd,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begun.
Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
from Song of Myself
I.
I celebrate myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loaf and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease . . . observing a spear of summer grass.
II.
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes . . . the shelves
are crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
The atmosphere is not a perfume . . . it has no taste
of the distillation . . . it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever . . . I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, and buzzed whispers . . . loveroot, silkthread,
crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration . . . the beating of my heart . . .
the passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore
and darkcolored sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belched words of my voice . . . words loosed
to the eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses . . . a few embraces . . . reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along
the fields and hill-sides,
The feeling of health . . . the full-noon trill . . . the song of me
rising from bed and meeting the sun.
Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? Have you reckoned
the earth much?
Have you practiced so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin
of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun . . . there are
millions of suns left,
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand . . . nor
look through the eyes of the dead. nor feed on the spectres
in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.
W. D. Snodgrass (1926- )
April Inventory
The green catalpa tree has turned
All white; the cherry blooms once more.
In one whole year I haven't learned
A blessed thing they pay you for.
The blossoms snow down in my hair;
The trees and I will soon be bare.
The trees have more than I to spare.
The sleek, expensive girls I teach,
Younger and pinker every year,
Bloom gradually out of reach.
The pear tree lets its petals drop
Like dandruff on a tabletop.
The girls have grown so young by now
I have to nudge myself to stare.
This year they smile and mind me how
My teeth are falling with my hair.
In thirty years I may not get
Younger, shrewder, or out of debt.
The tenth time, just a year ago,
I made myself a little list
Of all the things I'd ought to know,
Then told my parents, analyst,
And everyone who's trusted me
I'd be substantial, presently.
I haven't read one book about
A book or memorized one plot.
Or found a mind I did not doubt.
I learned one date. And then forgot.
And one by one the solid scholars
Get the degrees, the jobs, the dollars.
And smile above their starchy collars.
I taught my classes Whitehead's notions;
One lovely girl, a song of Mahler's.
Lacking a source-book or promotions,
I showed one child the colors of
A luna moth and how to love.
I taught myself to name my name,
To bark back, loosen love and crying;
To ease my woman so she came,
To ease an old man who was dying.
I have not learned how often I
Can win, can love, but choose to die.
I have not learned there is a lie
Love shall be blonder, slimmer, younger;
That my equivocating eye
Loves only by my body's hunger;
That I have forces true to feel,
Or that the lovely world is real.
While scholars speak authority
And wear their ulcers on their sleeves,
My eyes in spectacles shall see
These trees procure and spend their leaves.
There is a value underneath
The gold and silver in my teeth.
Though trees turn bare and girls turn wives,
We shall afford our costly seasons;
There is a gentleness survives
That will outspeak and has its reasons.
There is a loveliness exists,
Preserves us, not for specialists.
Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)from Howl for Carl Solomon
I.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in
the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural
darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering
on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and
Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the
windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and
listening to the Terror through the wall, got busted in their pubic beards returning
through
Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried
their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward
poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over
the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and
moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and
kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on
benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering
mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of
Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale
beer after noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen
jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to
the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off
windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and
eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes,
meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture
postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under
junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to
go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome
farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the
cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were
visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter
midnight street light smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and
followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task,
and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of
dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire place Chicago,who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big
pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of
Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and
undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery
of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no
crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals
and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and
Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose gardens and the grass of public parks
and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a
Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the
heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed
shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the
craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of
cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall
and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last
gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed
in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun rise, flashing buttocks under
barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of
these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver-joy to the memory of his innumerable lays
of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in
caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings &
especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden
Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung over with heartless Tokay
and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a
door in the East River to open to a room full of steamheat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the
wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in
oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the
rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build
harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky
surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow
morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure
vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, &
alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to
open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of
&