The Silver Fox

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fox

slouching
in forgotten tap-rooms
dirty old men,
forgotten old men,
slop piss colored beer
from, wet, dripping glasses.
the hollow din,
the retelling of the good old days,
echoes sadly
as life quickly passes.

“They used to call me ‘The Silver Fox’
What do you think of that?
They used to care.”

an empty glass crashes
to the muddy floor.

“I guess I’ll be hitting the streets tonight.
Sleep in an alley tonight.
Nobody cares.”

slouching
in forgotten tap-rooms
dirty old men,
forgotten old men,
slop piss colored beer.
nobody cares…

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Concrete Box

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bar

 

I work in a corporate, concrete box;
no windows, only a computer terminal
to link me to the outside world.
Only second-hand accounts
of weather, traffic,
whether it is day or night.

I sometimes go to work in darkness,
return in darkness.
I don’t know if the sun
remembered to rise at all.
Like the light in a refrigerator.
Does it really turn off
when I close the door?

At a keyboard, my fingers type numbers,
millions of numbers.
My mind wanders woodland paths.
I watch birds flitting from limb to limb,
chipmunks scurrying, stopping,
looking around, then scurrying again.

My mind plays tricks on me.
I imagine that just 26 floors down
I could exit on Beale or Bourbon Street.
Hear sounds of the South,
guitars, saxophones and raspy voices
that rule the rhythm of my body and soul.

Take me on a blues ride.
Let me wander with the lyrics
down Highway 61, “The Blues Highway”.
Let me smell the sweat and the booze,
the jostling at the bar,
the waitress who will smile for a tip.

Let me smell magnolia, bougainvillea,
where Spanish moss hangs below the branches,
see the darkest eyes and brightest smile,
hear that special whisper, “Come with me.”
We’ll walk for miles, be holding hands,
and never want for any more
than our window to a dream.

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Morning Star

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Morning Star, Evening Star
North guides the sailors
count us our blessings
long into the night

weave me a blanket
made out of moments
dreams of discovery
adventures now past

will me, be still me
arms be my cradle
comfort and kindness
within your caress

sing me forever
that place far away
close as a heartbeat
our home where we’ll stay

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Prairie Crocus

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images-1

 

After the snow moves north
the prairie crocus,
native anemone,
ears of the earth
listens
for the rustle of summer.

Gently she sways
to moments of truth.
In her petals
the purple blue mist
of far distant mountains;
a small golden sun
close to her heart.

Eternity
folds close around her,
warms her
from the cold winds
of spring.

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Hunter Spirits

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“We planted you, we nurtured you, we protected you
until you became a mighty tree that spread through our
hunting grounds. With its branches you now lash us.”
– Mississauga Chief

IMG_4656

Steps used by the Rideau Lakes Mississauga
Band of the Ojibwe or Anishinaabe Nation, for
traditional Sun Dance and other ceremonies.

I sit on ancient steps of stone
by myself, but not alone.
The presence of ten thousand souls
imbues me with their joys and goals.

The steps lead to a sacred place;
for Mississauga prayers and grace.
They danced to celebrate the sun
before the white man and the gun.

I seek what they sought; love and peace ~
for wars around the world to cease.
To live a life of nature’s plan
in harmony with fellow man.

In harmony with living things
and everything that nature brings.
I sit on ancient steps of stone
with souls to guide me on my own.

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Playful Spirit

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spirit

 

Playful spirit behind an oak
laughed and flirted but never spoke.
Eyes of onyx, raven hair,
I marveled at her standing there.

Brilliant sunshine — could barely see.
Had my eyes played tricks on me?
I stood in reverence and awe
not sure of what I thought I saw.

Fluttering soft, the poplar leaves
perhaps, had caused me to believe
I’d seen someone who wasn’t there —
eyes of onyx, raven hair.

The nimble spirit deftly danced
from tree to tree and lightly pranced.
I didn’t know quite what to do
about this vision in my view.

I had no knowledge of such things.
What does one do when nature brings
such beauty, grace and winsome mold
who, I could see but could not hold?

I could have watched her all day long
her movements sang just like a song.
She beckoned me with backward glance
down flowered pathway of romance.

I had no choice, I was entranced;
induced to follow where she danced.
The woods had changed, were foreign now,
colors brighter, surreal somehow.

I saw some spirits on the way.
They went about their normal day.
They took no notice of my form
contrary to their spirit norm.

They were at home among the trees;
conversely, I felt ill at ease.
Abandoned, then just like a snare —
eyes of onyx, raven hair.

She drew me close and hugged me tight;
we kissed, caressed throughout the night.
Not a wisp of evanescence,
but a real woman’s presence.

Wood smoke, sweet-grass, musk and cedar —
I took her hand, she let me lead her.
Beneath the boughs we made our bed
while stars shone brightly overhead.

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Woodland Spirit

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angel

.

Along a woodland path, I strolled
of nature’s beauty I extolled:
The dappled trail, a great horned owl,
infrequently, a gray wolf’s howl.

The gentle, scented lake-side breeze
had me completely at my ease.
The midnight hour had come and gone.
Toward a clearing, I was drawn.

Why I went, I’ll never know.
It was my destiny to go.
The Harvest Moon with mystic light
revealed an otherworldly sight.

A shimmering appeared, it seemed,
or, perhaps, I’d only dreamed.
I knelt in supplication to
a spirit who appeared in view.

In beauty, purity and grace,
with love-light shining from her face,
a halo, waves of raven hair.
I was in awe to see her there.

I kissed her hand and softly prayed.
The orchestra of nature played.
The scent of cedar on her skin
enveloped me with warmth within.

The blessing of her touch sublime,
in harmony our souls entwined.
A world apart, together now —
no question as to where or how.

Conversation through the night.
Her wisdom helped me see the light.
In times of need, like little birds,
they come to me, her precious words.

To me, her message was of love
for man, for nature, God above.
To let me love beyond my fear.
To live in balance through the year.

Awakened at the break of dawn
I found the spirit to be gone.
Perhaps a dream — and then I found
a ring of stones placed on the ground.

I sometimes feel her doeskin dress
against my arm — a sweet caress.
Poetic gifts of love and grace,
soothe my heart, my soul embrace.

.

Notes: The stones represent: Learning, Respect, Acceptance, Spiritual Sight, Listening, Speaking, Love, Service, Relationship, Creativity, Dynamic Spirituality and Gratitude.

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frost

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959 Jeff_Rowland_romantic_pictures (10)

 

a dove sits on a snowy bough,
her song cuts through my heart.
we both know how the lonely feels
when love is torn apart.

there never was an emptiness
the way I feel inside.
the ache is deep within my chest,
i have no place to hide.

was once a time my heart was full
when spring was in the air,
but Frost has draped me with her cloak,
my tears fall in despair.

the midnight train is leaving soon.
my bags are packed to go.
i shiver on the platform bare,
a spectre, slinking low.

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Memory In Blue

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images

A flicker
of cerulean
swoops beneath the boughs
of towering pines
against the sky.

Wings, a silent whisper.
Dream, not quite come true.
Shadow, on my mind.
Memory
in blue.

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Fireplace

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fire3

 

I’ll put a fresh log in the fireplace.
Will you pour us a glass of wine?
We’ll relax on overstuffed pillows,
smell the scent of burning pine.

Leave stress and hurry behind us.
It’s the time to let worries lie.
We’ll watch the constellations
appear in the darkening sky.

Magic, your eyes by the firelight.
Warm, your smile as you hold my hand.
Tell me your grandmother’s stories
of a nearby but distant land.

We communicate in silence,
My reflection is in your eyes.
Soft and gentle, your fingers.
Delightful, the sound of your sighs.

Stories of us to remember,
our stars melting gently above.
Never before have I felt such joy
as our presence together in love.

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Mourning Dove

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c9b9345e1856d0ff2baad630a33bab10

The silence of
the mourning dove,
more mournful
than her song.

She’s lost her mate,
her will to live,
yet time
still passes on.

Of days gone by,
she dreams her dreams,
when last she
heard him sing.

In widow’s weeds,
by empty nest,
a lonely dove
has lost her song.

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Caribbean Lovers

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lovers2

tropical sands
and seas to eternity
frolicking lovers
leaping in surf
libidinous longings
seizing forever
fulfilling today

fuschia, her lips
loving and laughing
hungry hearts
heading for somewhere
to secretive shade
seductive embrace
rekindling embers

lost in wonderland
wandering everywhere
wherever life takes them
that’s where they’ll go
going forward together
while loving to live
living to love

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choogling

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Glasgow steam train rolling
both feet stomping time
bagpipes pumped and blazing
rumbling down the line
fingers in a fury
spiders mating dance
master of the reelpipes
plays as in a trance

Audience is hidden
behind his mop of hair
They howl and they holler
Fred rocks on his chair
sounding like a steam train
blowing out the blues
chugging and choogling
drinking highland booze

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Robert

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An itinerant
entertainer
guitar on his back
ramblin’
from town to town
the devil by his side.
Performing
on street corners
in juke joints
roadhouses
lastly,
on August 13,1938,
at Shaples General Store,
Three Forks,
Mississippi.

Loner
philanderer
loved by the ladies
Robert was poisoned
with strychnine-laced whiskey
by a jealous husband
on the outskirts
of Baptist Town,
Greenwood,
Mississippi.

Buried in an
disputed grave
but, as Robert sang:
Baby, I don’t care
where you bury my body
when I’m dead and gone
You may bury my body, whoooo
Down by the highway side
So my old evil spirit
Can get a Greyhound bus
and ride
.

Where
he is buried
isn’t important;
what is important
is the influence he’s had
on musicians
the world over.
Eric Clapton
claims, “he is
the most important blues singer
that ever lived.”
May he forever
rest in peace.

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Borderlands

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2e5eddccdbb0b5510a1ae1c1e48e6a81

I live in the borderlands,
between reality and imagination,
just this side of fantasy.

Reality is okay.
I visit there
to check my mail,
earn a few dollars,
pay some bills,
buy groceries.

Reality is an okay place to visit
but, I wouldn’t want to live there.

I’m happiest in my mind
where I filter my thoughts
like an answering machine.
I delete the negative,
dwell on the positive.

People may see me walking alone.
They don’t see the beautiful woman,
with her hand in mine, beside me.

I may be seen sitting at a table, alone.
Nobody sees the delicate hand,
with the magic fingers,
sliding up my thigh.

Or, the passionate kiss
being planted on my throat,
the fingers running through my hair.

Where I work
people see me smile.
They think I enjoy my job.
They don’t know me.

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slipping and sliding

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images (1)

Encumbered by winter boots
resembling clown shoes
my steps unsure
hesitant
as I traverse
treacherous squishy slush
not yet cleared
from busy sidewalks

Runners sprint past me,
prancing gazelles
clad in tight
form fitting outerwear
navigate
narrow beaten paths
dodging obstacles
such as me

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voyeur

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from a small
upstairs window
everyday i watched
the lithe, graceful figure
tending her garden.

 

her hair
waves of sunshine
of a color used by Titian
in his portraits
of Judith

my interest
devotion, obsession,
i was powerless to resist —
a voyeuristic
perversion

her image
haunts my dreams
and my waking state.
she follows me
as shadow

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unobserved

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unobserved
i gaze upon you
lost in the world of a book.
i wonder which poet,
which author
holds your wrapt attention
to the exclusion
of all else.

Is it Burroughs?
Aristophanes?
or is it lighter reading,
a novel perhaps?
erotic historical romance?
i could ask you
but hesitate
to break their spell.

 

 

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when buffalo roamed…

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I pray
there is a place
beyond pain
where we will rise
in purity
above the cedars.

look down
our hearts have claimed
a rock ledge
to escape the rain,
a cathedral
among ancient pines.

stories
your grandma told
of a past
when buffalo roamed —
we were there
using different names.

  

  

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there is a place…

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there is a place
of solitude
where winds don’t blow
where leaves refuse to rustle

it is the space
of waiting
of anticipation
between musical notes

in this space
i am free
nothing comes or goes
nothing gives rise to distress

this is a place
i visit
where worldly troubles
have no place to settle

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The Letter

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I wanted to write
you a letter.
I didn’t know
just what to say.
So much has happened
little has happened
it’s happening every day.

You talked to me
of forever
so far away
yet, not so far.
You whispered
we’d be together
united as a single star.

I wandered the woods
lost and alone.
You took my hand
guided and charmed me.
Woodsmoke and cedar
drifted on the breeze.
I wondered if I’d find you
hiding behind our old oak tree.

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Shadrak

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woman in a black dress 02

Saturday found me at the Shadrak,
a downstairs club that had it all.
A woman took the floor in glad rags.
I felt I was in for a fall.

She spied me lounging in the corner.
My eyes caressed her every move.
She beckoned me over to the dance floor,
sleazy blues had us in the groove.

She was a tall sleek woman with a class act,
slumming and feeling so high.
Knew this was wrong — her legs were so long,
dress was cut up to her thigh.
She had to be a wife or a girlfriend,
no man would let this woman slip by.

Soft fingers stole away my reason,
for her I’d do right or wrong.
Flash of a thigh, wink of an eye,
she played that dress just like a song.
Maybe her lips, or the sway of her hips,
she had my number all along.

The scene couldn’t have been sweeter,
‘till Johnny sauntered through that door.
Cursed us a while, said we were vile,
reputations trampled on the floor.
Should have walked away, that isn’t my way,
his accusations cut to my core.

No backing down for right or for wrong,
for her I had to settle the score.
Glint of a knife, the end of a life,
Johnny lay dying on the floor.

Built to tantalize, she knew she was a prize;
she was a tall sleek woman with a class act,
slumming and feeling so high.
Knew this was wrong — her legs were so long,
I couldn’t let this woman slip by.
I wouldn’t let this woman slip by.

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The Hollies:  Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress

Lyrics:   http://ow.ly/TwlRS

 

Slave

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cold
dark, dank
stone walls
prison bars
footsteps
dread
blinding light
fierce pain
numb

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St. Kitts

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surf splashed
cold
upon my naked feet.
gulls circled and dove
squawking
music of morning.

ahead,
I saw her running.
clouds of sand
rising at her feet.
an impression,
insouciant,
carefree.

remembrance
of our lovemaking
overwhelmed
my euphoric mind.
was I dreaming?
or could this
be real.

Sample  my books for free — proceeds feed the homeless:
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The Ghost

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Little Jake approached me.
He knew that he knew me
but couldn’t remember my name.
I gave him a hug —
we’ve known each other
for seven years.

Jake, I said, “How are you?”
“Not good. I feel like
I’m walking in a fog.
I don’t know where I’m going…
Keep your money.
I don’t need anything.”

He drifted away
I was looking at a corpse.
He was still breathing,
but what I saw
was the ghost
of Little Jake.

Sample  my books for free — proceeds feed the homeless:
Gotta Find a Home: Conversations with Street People
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http://buff.ly/1YlMlPX
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Angel

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there’s a refuge
in my mind
where an Angel abides
floating in
a diaphanous gown
to shed comfort
and love
when i am in need

i needn’t see her
to believe
her presence in my life.
She radiates
all encompassing warmth
that lifts my heart
and soul
to serenity

Sample  my books for free — proceeds feed the homeless:
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Hearts Of Lovers

An amazing poem by House of Heart.

House of Heart

You are more rare than

a bird of paradise.

Let me leave my mark

upon your feathers

soft as eider down.

On a widespread river

amid the perfume of damp flowers

sing to me a mock sinner’s lullaby

in return I offer you pearls

and the hollow at my throat.

 

angel wings

Pinterest images

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Electra Glide

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tumblr_mkpiti4QxF1rj75xpo1_500

  
A motorcycle
pulled up beside me
as I walked along
the Pacific Coast Highway.

“Want a lift?”
said a sweet sexy voice.
“Sure” I said.
I swung my leg over
I don’t mind riding bitch

I slid my fingers
over her perfect hips
and joined them
over her warm, toned abs.

We rode beside the ocean
then stopped to watch the sunset.
Removed our boots
to feel the foaming waves
lapping at our bare feet.

I grasped her hair.
Her red expectant lips
found mine.
The rest of her body
followed.

I was standing in line at the liquor store lying to myself, I need this fifth of J.D. for the sore throat that I think may be coming on. In front of me was a woman with long, shapely legs. I paid for my purchase and was heading for the exit. There she was again, red lips, sun glasses and red hair. I recognized her from somewhere, college maybe. I think she was someone’s baby sister.

She said, “Dave, would you like a lift somewhere” My response was “Sure, your name’s Ivy, isn’t it? Which direction are you headed?”

She lowered her sunglasses, winked and replied, “Which direction do you want to go?’ Okay, I thought, this seems interesting. We walked to the parking lot, she headed to a Harley Davidson Electra glide. “You ride this?” I asked.

“Yes, haven’t you ridden a bike before?”

“Well, yes I have, but never as a passenger.

She mounted the driver’s seat, bent to flip down the passenger footboards and said, “Hop on.”

I swung my leg over, and thought I don’t mind riding bitch.

“Where do I hang on?” I asked.

“Well, there are passenger handles, or you can hang onto me.” She pulled on her riding gloves and as she reached forward to the hand grips her tee rode up her back exposing delectable flesh and the top of a black thong. I slid my fingers over her perfect hips and joined them on her warm and muscular abs. I thought This is a ride I’m going to enjoy.

She gunned the engine and we were off. We headed to the Pacific Coast Highway along the ocean, stopped to walk along the beach, the foaming waves lapping at our bare feet. We listened to seagulls swooping in, watched the tide and sunset. I took her hand, It seemed natural and warm. The rest is erotic memory.

Sample  my books for free — proceeds feed the homeless:
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She’s a Chameleon

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motorcycle
 

She’s a chameleon,
the worst kind of drama queen —
beneath those jeans and high top boots
you’ll find silk lingerie.

She’s a champion
who’ll out cuss, drink and fight
outlaw bikers twice her size and weight
to come back for more.

A mouthwaterin’
straight razor totin’ mama
who won’t hesitate to cut you
if you do her wrong.

If you treat her right,
show her the respect,
she’s earned, battled for and deserves,
she’ll always have your back.

A chick with attitude.
black leather on the outside;
soft, sensuous and so smoldering
when the lights are dimmed.

Pull off those high top boots,
slide down her tight tattered jeans —
a devil in silk, a chameleon,
an angel of seduction.

Image: http://buff.ly/2stmgJQ

Sample  my books for free — proceeds feed the homeless:
Gotta Find a Home: Conversations with Street People
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http://buff.ly/1wyjiKS
http://buff.ly/1YlMlPX
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A Friend In Trouble

My thoughts and prayers go out to this friend in need of love and emotional support. Please visit her blog at https://herladypinkrose.wordpress.com/2017/06/11/a-friend-in-trouble/.

Petals Unfolding

I was just notified this morning that a good friend of mine, Irene (IreneDesign2011), is very ill in a hospital in her city.  Her daughter, Claire, requested help from me to get the word out that her Mother needs prayer, Light and Energy, good thoughts, sent now.  If any of you know Irene will you please reblog this post and assist me to get to as many of Irene’s friends as possible so they know about this situation?

The following is the exact message Claire, Irene’s daughter requested I write in this post:

“I am not sure who is reading this but I hope it is read by Irene’s friends and followers.  I am her daughter, my name is Claire, and would like to give you an update on this story.  As I cannot guess her password to the computer, I cannot write a separate post for you to receive…

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