Poetry, Prose and Art Journal
Multilingual, Multicultural, Interdisciplinary Web Edition

Sid Gustafson
Bozeman, USA

Bayern baptism

Fat beggars lined the street.
Beer was food in germany, the
heartless land, he had overeaten.
Layed out on
the breadloafbrick nachtplatz now,
his mouth laced dry, swirled raw
with cobblestone crumbs and chewing
tobacco, he could not find
He could not find Freud.
He could not find his daughter.
Nietzche was dead.
His ear picked up Wagner.
His soul weeped poltergiests.
His blue heart was missing.
No roadbeat
on that street.
Little compassion and no
tolerance for
the less fortunate
or for his foreign leavings.

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