This poem seemed really fitting with the last post, yet I couldn’t fit it in anywhere. So here it is, all by itself, with some strange guy reciting it next to an egg cart:
Buffalo Bill’sdefunctwho used toride a watersmooth-silverstallionand break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethatJesushe was a handsome manand what i want to know ishow do you like your blueeyed boyMister Death-- E. E. Cummings
A student in Colorado, looking for some sort of synthesis--the big picture, encompassing all the strangeness in the universe--but willing to settle for the philosophic or poetic lens.


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