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Ode to A. G.

A hirsute young man with a transparent comb-over looks at me
from inside the screen and says he cannot stand his own mind.

His feral eyes drip of Benzedrine and his ethereal poem weaves calculated chaos into my room.
He mourns our tearful libraries and is determined to buy with his good looks everything he

needs. I wet my pants in laughter after he tells America that the crux of his personal national

resources are “unpublishable private literature that goes 1,400 miles-an-hour.”
Allen finishes his poem,
bids me good day,
and I wish he could stay:
but he’s passed.
I must summon him;

He left behind his pen;

The flames in its inkwell don’t surprise me in the least.

 

Poem By Adam Mattern Spencer

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