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Highflown: Love

In the highflown language

Of moon travelers

Social scientist sort our hearts-

Add their smog-crippled vision-

And rearrange our private pains

Along the Wall Street of current demands;

And my people become the

Cocaine that makes America high:

Become dreams

America sucks through maniacal straws of sleep;

Discounting our lore,

The scientist say we cannot love

say our needs are numbed:

But sometimes,

When you construct knots in my throat

And your lips re-create my heartclock,

I am hypnotized by the aggregate passion

Of my past  by the sum of my historical ecstasy:

A power we know

Cannot be stilled by airborne theories of scholars

Nestled in Freudian citadels:

A power that cannot be seen


Or flattened to fit the pages of a book.


Eugene B. Redmond

Come on family, let’s not let our POWER be stilled

or our LOVE numbed by airbore theories of scholars

and their smog-crippled vision.

But be that that is the sum of our historical ecstasy.

Have a great week family,



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