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18 Signs & Portents Where can we go these days to smoke And listen to Nina Simone as people pass, Examining the varied rhythm of gaits And the hunger each implies? There should be a body of water Nearby, an ocean, lake, river—the taint Of salt or fish mixed with diesel; Chairs and tables of brushed steel Or polished chrome; the coffee black, Serious. This is shading European, I know. But I want America to listen to Walt, finally—to get lazy and lay back On the jaded French divan. Where in America can we go to kill The people who need killing, Instead of endlessly complaining? 19 Where can we buy connecting cable To plug artists into the middle class Without exploding? We’d also like sex That admits its own pleasure— Where is the bed or chair selling nothing, Ready for our heat, weight, moisture? O where in America can we lie In the grass, arms crossed, and just look up At clouds, without seeing signs and portents? I mean before we die, and they make us. ...

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