Exhaling copper, tribal, poppy, civil and non-civil wars,
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Lincoln breathed in nearly five decades.
He crossed a hazed Y2K intersection,
to read headlines through a neon-framed window
and lips on familiar faces,
before watching buildings tumble.
After listening to Coast to Coast broadcasts
on his transistor radio,
he would get up,
leaving his room to view shooting stars,
each on their way to fated destinations.
He had been crusaded,
but appeared unconvinced.
he tried to see his grandparents,
believing they must be looking in on him.
Time to be going,
Lincoln headed toward campus.
There was always a line for lunch at Hare Krishna's.
He'd sit on his favorite bench,
watching students and professors walk by.
Some of them would say hello to him by name,
"Hey Lincoln, got a poem for me?"
Of course, Lincoln wasn't his real name.
To those asking, he gave a piece of cardboard,
which held a poem written with pens he'd find
beneath or near his bench each morning.
His young friends would offer pieces of fruit.
One girl shared half her daily orange,
presented in a ziplocked bag,
She would always say,
"See you tomorrow Lincoln."
Just beyond reach,
he tried to hold his grandmother's gaze.
Muddied memory slowly streaked upon his face.
Early one Fall morning,
they found him on his bench,
with stack of cardboard offerings
and transistor radio alongside,
Students held a memorial service for him.
A few faculty members attended,
as did employees of an animal sanctuary.
Saying they needed it more,
he had regularly contributed half of whatever he had.
A couple students decided to publish a collection
of his poetry,
donating proceeds to local animal shelters.
They adorned "Lincoln's Dream"
with a photo of half an orange,
below the subliminal
deep within manipulation
that's where tr^th resides
2 Dec 2011