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Postmodern Village
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Bean's Blank Page
by Bean Newton

I want joy like a river in my soul (in my soul).
I want to ride six white horses when she comes (when I come).
I want peanut butter & jelly, a mouth full of golden teeth, a jet car--you know, what every good, red-blooded American boy wants, except I want it all in hot pink.
I want to debunk the myth of Sisyphus, rejoin the class of castrati, make a move on Simone de Bouvier. It's all about the unattainable.

Consider: white-ghost night-ride crossburnings is America also. Can't we all just be Americans, self-hatred intact?
Freud falsified sex for us, opposite of/same as Victorian before. It's all
we could do to maintain our chocolate trousers.
And corn-pone greebliness. I have a fetish,
but I won't say.
Then you must be a Communist
toodley-toodley doo.

I want Orangina and a silver four-post bed.
I want a freight train and a marble hat instead.
I want a miracle like the window on Waco street
where they saw the Virgin Mary in the street-lite
shine. What's a Virgin Mary worth in 1999?

I want a carnival and popcorn: the spasm
of the midway. Temperature and platform;
smell of funk and fear.

I want rainbow-colored ashcan and multi-floral rose.
Mechanistic outflow and a big red beeping nose.

Consider Hitler. No, consider Stalin ordering
millions of murders from within four walls. Beds
creaking with the relief of the lifted weight,
body shaking into the night lifted by other
bodies into a waiting Zil.
Makes me wanna eat.
     She'll be riding six white horses.