Here you will find thePoem1919of poet Anonymous Americas
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 East and somewhat West of the Great Mississippi. should've turned in his sleep Too many Suns In too many Cities Too many faces Faces in the face of it All. How much grief? Too 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 Blur in the afternoon sun. The celebration Ends in the afternoon sun The victory becomes Defeat in the afternoon sun. Morality 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.
