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SEAN LAMBERT
Boston As the events of the day change and Soup needs to be made to counter the Drop in temperature, waiting is the Action of record. Suggestions are taken like the ballots In a box of another’s devising and Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery is Difficult to find, more difficult even Than story plots whispered into your Ear from between the tongues of cats. Accusations find rest on noses secure Behind grand columns and leather bound Volumes stacked like soldiers, organized By rank, held accountable to a chosen few. We weep in rooms dulled by somber Carpeting and portraits of famous men. We celebrate with scaffolding that Stretches beyond logistical comprehension, Racing against the weatherman to get the Job done, a triumph of the human spirit, A neck and neck debate worth watching From afar. If only the drop of the axe came swift and True to the target at hand and you would Know exactly what I mean. Consider this I am standing firm beneath Hands holding eggs, talking Gibberish between bouts of Communication. You are on Westminster Ave. Refusing to explain the deficiencies Of the camera crew and a flashback To your always running imagination. A hint of spring dances through The smell of pizza cooking Somewhere along the way, A pleasant reminder of simple Things on the rise. she came in through Sean Lambert: I am a 27 year-old writer living in New Haven, CT. I guess these poems, under your guidlines, can be considered a collective "purge" of inspiration, written in cafes, restaurants, my bed, etc. I write mostly album / music reviews, but find poetry a necessary outlet when the mood strikes. |
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