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*Ache to the Aitches*

by Paul Siegell

Help comes (hope so) in a way, & I help need a way in a 
please-frayed need. From glum I come, from the in & up 
of giving. It’s what my emotionals are asking for—Help.

Honk. On honk no stoned, coned Chihuahua. But here, hi,
have a taste of. Hot, they Choco Taco, retail pretzel, from  
nonpareil to nonchalant fresh hoagie 1/2s down the street.

Down the treats without the memory (a hoax?) of ever tast-
ing them; you tasted them. Life alike a lake-strange lake, a 
where & their thereafter. Wawa’s ATM, my local Titicaca. 

Hovering the river, orange of graffiti beneath the Walnut 
Street Bridge, a hint: “DO IT FOR” & then after a pause, 
an I-beam, who in the reading sees: “THE FAT LADY”—

In a haze & out of it, but still able to fill a ladle, to lift a liq-
uid. As the fertile’ll fill a ladle (for a fee: a pen). But is this 
just the Delaware & Schuylkill, or my Tigris & Euphrates?

Halo Philadelphia, Radiohead probably isn’t the healthiest 
to earbud up right now, but the doorbells of sunset & every-
one pic-posting Facebook with pumpkin-kid-patch cuteness. 

Here. To (bridge) the hole, to edit lonely into lovely, to hike 
the melancholy lollipop & lick along the latitude of its juice 
& its longitude for a guide, for how to head toward healing.

 

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