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Before the threat
And dismal cold gray
of mourning
Came the sun.

And Charlie Comiskey
should've turned in his sleep
should've turned in his sleep
shoud've turned...

Insane Sun
Floating above the earth
Like some extravagant madman
Spending next year's allowance.

The same burning sun
In the same afternoons
In all the cities
and somewhat
of the
Great Mississippi.

should've turned in his sleep

Too many
In too many
Too many faces
in the face of it

How much grief?
Too many faces
Too many suns
Far too many of too many things
Far too many of too many things.

should've turned in his sleep

More like Dali,
less Victoria.
The playing field becomes a landscape
Fixed and isolated and trapped
Between the borders of its own fabrication.

The stadium faces
in the afternoon sun.
The celebration
in the afternoon sun
The victory becomes
in the afternoon sun.

Victoria Escaped
Insane sun.

How many of how many things.

The death of honor
The end of a fading
And final trust.

should've turned in his sleep

And as
The unsettling dust
Settles in the throat of all men
There are not enough beers
In all the bars
In all the world
To flush out the stale bitterness
Of too many afternoons
In too many suns.

And Charlie Comiskey
woke up
and deposited the nightmare
in the pillow of his dream.

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