April 21, 2011:
sandwiched between Hitler's birthday
and Jesus' death,
caught in the cross section of shadows cast
from the flames of torture ovens and the setting sun,
you poor anti-holiday,
you depressed any-other-day.
April 21, 2011:
neither a stoner's solistice
or Mother Earth's reprieve,
you sour detox,
you somber junkyard.
Such a forgettable, good for nothing day, this April 21, 2011:
I wrote this poem on the 24th.
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