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PLAY MY GUITAR

I tossed and turned throughout the night, something amiss, not quite right. Thunder rolled across black skies, lightning struck shut both my eyes. My bed lay shattered upon shards of glass. Clouds swirled by,  like comets fast.  I wondered if this night would pass. I prayed to G-d this would not last. Take me away, my soul please spare this doubt, this pain, this noise I hear. This heavy night I cannot bear.What I can’t see is what I fear. When sunrise creeps into the day, what in the world will loved ones say?Well morning came, morning went, my body wracked, my spirit spent. The day turned into early eve while deep within my dreams did weave. Finally, my conscience broke into a world where flowers spoke. The life I’d known was all but gone. Rocks and trees sang sweet love songs. I looked around for someone to share this miracle I swear I hear, someone to see the Robin’s egg \jump up and dance upon the chair, someone to play that old guitar driving by in his yellow car. I realized then, it’s just me, alone again, just me who sees. I wiped the sweat clean from my brow. Who would believe me, anyhow?

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THIS JUST IN:

BREAKING NEWS ON CNN

TERROR WARNING OVER TOOTHPASTE

I have been telling people for years that using toothpaste would one day blow their face apart. Did anyone listen to me? NO! So that’s what they get.

CNN & those of it’s ilk remind me that if I believe anything spewing out of the canker sore mouths of news anchors, politicians, government spokespersons, my infectious disease doctors, my team of specialists down at the old Twist & Shout… actually, if I believe anything anyone says about anything without doing my own research, then I deserve what I get. I don’t though. Thank god for that. Thank god for you. Thank god for me & everyone else who questions authority.

THIS JUST IN JUST LIKE THE LAST ONE

ALL CONCERTS HAVE BEEN CANCELLED

MUHAMMAD IS DEVASTATED

JESUS ISN’T THRILLED EITHER

REMOVED COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT

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I have been thinking quite a bit about people lately. I like people. I like Rattlesnakes too, but I don’t feed the birds. Go fuck yourself! 

That sounds crazy, and harsh too. I apologize. I take it back. Go fuck yourself if nobody else will. I’m joking. Ha. Don’t go fuck yourself without me.

I don’t know what has gotten into me lately. Ever since JAY LENO left NBC’S TONIGHT SHOW, it has been this way. The entire population of the USA located in the middle of the Americas between a rock above us & a hard place below us is in a ‘funky town, electric blue avenue’ kind of mood.

I do not want or intend to be a hater of humanity. In truth, I sincerely love people & people love me. People who love people are the happiest in the world. Without their irksome shrieks rattling the cages of the ruling class-clown cabals, the rest of us wouldn’t even be alive to bitch all day long the way you do. How sad would that be? What else … ?

OK then…here is my little short story I dedicate to my mother, Edith Ann, who taught me that if telling the truth will hurt me or others, then lie. And to my dear childhood friend, PATTY ANN, who taught me that beauty, brains, a beautiful body & being ridiculously wealthy are far more than enough to get anything you want out of life. She should know. My little story will then be followed by a brief public announcement from Ms. Laurie Anderson.

Thank you for your time, your support through cash donations & for hooking me up with your crack dealer. It is through the generous support of people like you that keep entitled people like me totally enabled. Have a nice day. Oh yes, a word to the wise, don’t brush your teeth tonight.

UPDATE: I REMOVED MY SHORT STORY BECAUSE I COPY-WRITE INFRINGED ON MY OWN WORK. THAT IS WHERE I DRAW THE LINE.

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THEY CALL ME ISHMAEL

My name is Prophet but they call me, “Hey, you!” I am a penniless drifter shod poorly, diseased & despised. I sing for a seat near the hall down the path to the shed used by swine. I’m gleeful with joy for any place to dine. Crafty by circumstance, I am blessed with a spark of divine mind. I trade hope for shelter. I barter truth for a comfortable lie. I am privileged. I feel honored to share my most cherished possession with whatever lurking beast or saint there may come a-knocking on the door of my rice paper heart. The possession I speak of is my inner light; my love; the most powerful force in the universe. More often than not, I possess neither food nor shelter but light has never let me down. My huckster mind tries to convince me otherwise, yet when it does I always rally to the cry of, “Shyster thoughts be damned!” Beliefs do not make invidious fantasies real. I’d think I’d gone insane if there was such a thing as sanity in this world. Those evenings I am cold, angry, lonely, rejected, and filled with remorse for coming to this place in the first place, are the same evenings I forget to be grateful. On these occasions, nights crawl painfully slow to that trickster I call dawn. What I lack in essentials I make up in wisdom. Vagabond wisdom is priceless so I give it away for free. I must. As my father before me, I stand hunched back, just as his father before him. My deformed stoop is the result of an incalculable weight I carry upon my shoulders. My mother was born in Hell’s Kitchen. My father was orphaned at the age of two in the musky dank Mississippi poverty which knows no equal. Tragedy & poverty make good bedfellows. They don’t always have a choice. Obstacles overcome by both my mother & father overcame a long distance of heart, and so they conjoined in Union. Union was just one element of their prismed battle, for the Confederate flag flew in my father’s brain until the day he faded away. For one brief moment of a time eternal, Shangri La embraced their love with ideals & passion & abandon. Even so, sometime it is easier born deformed & senseless than bearing this weight, this soul numbing weight. I fear the worst should I stumble or fall. I fear for the innocents striding between land & the cobalt blue seas. When I fear it is because I’ve abandoned gratitude. Sometimes my unbridled dejection paralyzes my connection to God. It is easiest then to dismiss divine light as a dreamers hallucinations run amok. And I do. Yes, I do. I dismiss like a diva.

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I feel I am coming to the conclusion of this incredible Face Book journey. It has been more of a virtual diary for all of us than anything else. In the grand scheme of things, the future, and there will be a future, will look upon us as trailblazers who either lived up to the promise of our great humanity or did not. Thus far, we are utter failures. We have learned a great deal but we have yet to open our eyes wide and apply the truths we know in our heart are there and must see their light shine or wither away. If you believe you of your own self can do nothing, or if you lack empathy, compassion, or if you are silent in the face of brutality then you will suffer that fate yourself. This is the truth of the world and is proven over and over again, To allow your government to indiscriminately kill babies and others with or without impunity is a slap to the face of god. Is that going to be your legacy? Our counter intuitive support of rogue nations who are wrapped in the cloak of an absurd righteousness, or just happen to be in the spot on the beach you like the best, is bullshit and evil, if there is such a thing as evil… you are it. You allow your government to support and prop up other nations who are committing crimes against humanity just as they declared they were the objects of. Will they, will you ever learn your lessons? You say never again and then do it again. That is just not right. The odious, Dantesque penchant currently the rage, the marginalization of immigrants, the demonization of the Muslim faith and it’s adherents tells the universe you really are in deep trouble. Not because you are as ignorant as any of your predecessors (for which there is no defense nor escape from the price you will most assuredly pay), but because nobody anywhere gets away with anything despite what geniuses say about that issue or any other where you simply defame your creator’s intention; the glorification of the goodness of being. THIS MUST CEASE. If it does not, we cease. Is that your legacy? I do not believe so. I remember: SILENCE EQUALS DEATH. SILENCE=DEATH. If you understand only one thing in your brief, fleeting, so very eternal life, understand this: ALL LIFE IS SACRED.

 

This clip is truly iconic Americana. From the ‘rousing’ of the boys & a nation, to the private sitting between George M. Cohan & President F D Roosevelt, we are given a glimpse into how a great nation truly behaves. If we were to ever let go of the potential of our deep humanity, it would be a great loss, so this shall never happen. When I fall, I get up and keep going, over and over and over and over …. don’t stop believing.

 

JOHANNA HINTING by SCOTT UTLEY

 
I think Johanna was giving me a hint, Johanna my sister. Warn me. In her own special way, her gentle, caring way. She posted a poem a few days ago… or has it been weeks?… I can’t keep track of time anymore…it doesn’t matter…time…anymore…to a guy like me. She called it “To Edith Failing”. Edith my Mom.
 
I am standing naked, drenched. My is head turned toward the sky. Cold rain pouring into my eyes. The cobra skinned clouds & the moon are playing tricks on my mind. After what seems like days of rain, the clouds part and the moon crystalised clear.
 
The blue dot light stars splash across the night sky. Then it dawns on me that maybe Johanna is preparing ime and the world I know for the saddest moment of my life… lives really…hundreds…maybe more.
 
Edith is my favorite mother of all time The first mother walked out of Africa. Edith was that mother. I am grateful she chose me for a son. I guess she was looking for a challenge. Is Edith Failing? If so… will she return?
 
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My eyes hold their place among the wreckage of my face. I’m thinking, one more cocktail with this blue-eyed slab, (paid for twice over, but never to be owned), will not subdue the bestial morning’s sadistic appetite. The secret is out; Fire Island tragedies are lurking under star-crossed pines in paradise. My eyes are held in place midst the wreckage of my face by shear will. I think, perhaps one more cocktail with this blue-eyed slab paid for twice over, but never to be owned, will obliterate a debauched morning hangover. What about an aspirin or a bloody Mary? Maybe if I take a dive into the raging blue Atlantic waters of forget me nows, my sins will be erased along with yesterday and my inhuman slurs and beat you down puns. Even if the divine in divine mind could muster mercy for my soul, yes, even if I acquiesce and bow to their Latin liturgies, and I finally see that all my prescriptions are merely the fleeting tonics of a foolish mind, I will never find repose. Consequently, (I will not deny this) a loaded Colt 45’s horsepower is my medicine of choice. What other elixir will suffice when you wake early on a brand new day and your mirror is exclaiming, “You’re old, decrepit and to boot you’re gay? These are but the rage-dreams of a narcissist’s self-absorbed preoccupation. In ephemeral brevity, my spirits rise high as the sun glides its way into mid-day.

I take a second look at that man in the mirror I know as me. I think the history of my face and the fractured emerald matrix of m y eyes look familiar to me. I confront myself. Are you ancient splendor garbed in hues of wisdom’s wonders? Or are you a masked imposter stoking a Fire Island tragedy lurking under star crossed pines? My eyes hold their place amongst the wreckage of my face. I’m a silly man. I think I look dashing as my life and times and face decay. I think, “Oh, what’s another cocktail, or a line of coke or two, with this blue-eyed prince of a man; paid for twice over?” The fine print says ‘on loan, ever to be owned.’ Nowhere does the contract state ‘this stud, despite his sublime stature cannot subdue another debauched morning hangover revenge.’ On Fire Island, ghosts lurk scarecrow, screw-faced under littered dreams. Theirs is an insatiable hunger for any soul so predisposed to join their twisted spirits in a ritual of howls.

Paradise Lost Paradise Found Over The Rainbow Smashed To The Ground. My eyes hold their place within the wreckage of my face as I slowly turn to ashes. Please, just one more cocktail with you, my beloved, blue eyed Aphrodite. I’ve handsomely paid for you twice over, could you love me for any fee? No. Not he or any living mortal can subdue this debauched morning hangover. Finally, I take yet another look at that man in the mirror I know as me. I think the history of my face and the fractured emerald matrix of my eyes look familiar to me. I confront myself. Are you ancient splendor garbed in hues of wisdom’s wonders? Or are you a masked imposter stoking a Fire Island tragedy lurking under starcrossed pines? My eyes hold their place inside the wreckage of my face. I think, one more cocktail with this blue eyed slab, paid for twice over but never to be owned, leased but never mine for evermore will not change the fact that no mere mortal will ever subdue my demoralized mornings spent between heaven and hell. You see, here on Fire Island, ghosts lurk screw faced under starcrossed pines howling without sound.

 

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LEO

I am a Lion.

I am a child of the Sun.

I’m proud of my pride & royal blue blood.

I listen to all but I answer to none.

I am a Lion with wings on my sides.

I use them to flee but never to hide.

I’ve known sorrow & wonder.

I’ve laughed & I’ve cried.

I am a Lion on a cobalt blue sky.

I have ruby red diamonds where others have eyes.

I am a prophet to some because I have died.

I am a Lion with a powerful roar.

My effortless might evens the score.

Such cowards they are.

See how they run? 

There isn’t a battle I haven’t won.

lion vs snake

Dedicated To Karl Waldbauer

WINGED LION COVER by http://sandara.deviantart.com/

WINGED LION INSERT by http://www.scott-eaton.com

Galaktika Poetike "ATUNIS"

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Poem by Aprilia Zank
 
his name is prophet
inspired by a fellow poet’s verse
 
I see you
drifting above the clouds
as there is no abode for you
beneath their desultory patterns
 
you with the patch on your right eye
and the knife in your bowels
you with your rice-paper heart
and the tongue of a hundred tongues
 
you have reached for the holy light
but it blurred to haze
when you touched it
with your trembling hands
 
you have walked on soot
and begged for shelter
at celestial gates
but nobody washed your feet
or called you prophet
 
and when you’re gone
your words will linger about
homeless
restless
waiting for translation.

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I followed the song of the nightingale through the forest to the edge of my mind. I remembered to cut lilacs from the bank of the creek as I raced to the place we first met. The Muses found me naked singing lullabies to shooting stars over a blue harvest moon. Fearful for my sanity, they summoned the Elder Blue Sprites & the Green Wood Elves; odd creatures revered for their great healing powers. Do you remember the cliffs of desire where we first met at the edge of the world near the temple of the heart where a forgiving ocean meets the grateful sky? Do you remember Frey, the golden bear who wished us well?  

The Elder Blue Sprites were certain I must be either crazy or insane from hunger so they fed me cherry blossoms & tried to distract me with fantasies from the other side of time. The Green Wood Elves being somewhat more wizened than their cousins insisted I was a sign from the great source of our belonging. They proudly displayed their magic to me. They showed me how they had learned to make stars sing. I had never heard a true symphony until that day. The Green Wood Elves taught me how to expand my heart beyond what I thought was its ultimate frontier. They taught me how they weave their magic with hopes I might finally free myself from the ghosts of my past and the image of you when we first met. I could  never let that happen though. Sometimes Wood Elves can be so naive.

I love this cliff near the den of the bear where the sky drinks the sea & mountains stand tall at the edge of my mind where we bathed in an ocean of forgiveness. That was ten thousand years ago but here I still stand. The Western Wind says you will be home soon. I knew you would return. Hurry now. My whole world is waiting for you. I am still holding lilacs too.

 

Burnt onto the pages of my ancient history, is the story of our love; a spiritual decree. Penned onto the memory of my simple, fleeting life, is the epic of our union, quite beautifully described. I am stunned by the depth of your soul. Shall I be forever mystified? And this evening, brazenly confetti’’d on a Hollywood freeway overpass, I saw your initials set upon a fractured heart. While my soul bleeds adoration in silence, I wonder, is this love’s crucifixion? Is this how Mary felt in the garden? No answer is of consequence, for what I will remember long after I have died, is the memory of your face, indelibly inscribed.

AlEX cropped

 

He says he loves Jesus and Jesus loves him.
He’s a modern day prophet forgiving your sins.
He’s a radio pirate with a cable show too,
A mistress in Paris, an eye out for you.

His brand of religion breeds heartbreak and pain.
He’s a born again Christian with something to gain.
Deceitfully convincing his flock of salvation,
In return he receives a standing ovation.

His glorious sermons preach schemes of division,
Exquisitely crafted to prevent any schism.
Triumphantly pitting his will against right,
He lusts after money & covets your wife.

An unnatural affection for boys under ten,
He’s drugged quite a few on his couch in the den.
He’s suspicious of women and fearful of men.
There’s a gun by his bed marked ‘specially’ for them.

He’s a beast. He’s a monster. It’s sad but it’s true.
His secret agenda keeps Jesus from you.
He’s afraid you’ll rise up if you find out the truth,
Afraid you’ll tip off your wife & your youth.

He’s a huckster, a shyster, and the devil disguised.
He’s a freak who insists only his god is wise.
This prince of invective is consumed by desire.
While preaching forgiveness he’s stoking his fire.

 

 

Good morning ladies and gentlemen, this is your flight attendant speaking: Please fasten your seat belts. The captain has asked me to remind you, there is no smoking permitted in the lavatories, and to tell you we are going down!
Down!
Down!
Our fiery crash landing into the snow-capped mountain below should be painless… but one never knows. The temperature at the site our destination is uncomfortable. Should you require assistance upon our arrival, do not hesitate to call upon your flight attendant. Beverages & continental breakfast shall be served at Heaven’s Gate, located in the main concourse compliments of our lord, Jesus Christ. Everyone is welcome except for Reverend Fred Phelps of the Hillsborough Community Baptist Church, Topeka, Kansas, sitting in aisle 2, seat 2, you are going to hell.
Hell!
Hell!
Because Freddy,  www dot god hates you dot com. 
Thank you for flying our friendly skies. And have a nice day.
www god

Full  moon silver frosted leaves, and glacine dew robed sycamore sleeves. Sagacious spiders (masters of weave), slept snug & warm beneath my eaves. The creek roared fierce with a late spring rain: All things full must surely wane: Perpetual blossoms should not be sad, yet how do I sing when I’m this mad? Atomic beats drove me insane. The sight I saw played upon my brain. I wondered if the sky feels pain? Suddenly a Raven soared in for attack. The hawk’s quick eye did catch the beast but not before the raven’s feast. The hawk chick fell from the sycamore to the rocky banks of the canyon floor. The rest, of course, is etched in lore. An angel garbed in feathered dress descended from her perch of rest. The battered babe, his blood now cold, rose from the dead on wings of gold. Miraculous in the Phoenix mold; fell from the skies then resurrected: A god-shot is quite unexpected. For when the reaper comes it’s time to go. Since the first dawn this has been so. But then again, how’d I know? Heart returned to our beloved’s sky, & then the glint in our dear chick’s eye. The babe ascended his lofty nest to the greatest comfort, a mother’s breast. Successful in her Angel quest, our heroine in feathered dress returned to where all angels rest. And to this day this lore I’ve told delights all children, both young and old.

 

topangacanyon

TOPANGA CANYON 

Painted in Southern California.
Photo by David Blattel 2000

Oil on canvas, measuring 17 1/2 inches by 29 inches.  Signed by  Gégoux , and dated 1914.  Painted at Topanga Canyon, California.  Gegoux was interested in capturing the “marine layer” effect of this coastal area.  In this effort he would travel to the beach at Topanga Canyon and each morning observe the dominant atmospheric effect known as the “Catalina Eddy”.  This vortex forms periodically off Santa Catalina Island and throws marine air on shore, resulting in periods of up to a week or more when fog persists through out most of the day.  Excerpts from “The Topanga Story”, edited by Louise Armstrong York, © All Rights Reserved.  
The wetlands of old can be seen in this image, from circa 1914, which shows the entrance to Topanga Canyon viewed from the southeast looking northwest.  Courtesy of the Ernest Marquez Collection, © All Rights Reserved.  This painting was acquired from the estate of the Mary Eldriedge – Champoeg, Oregon.  
My grateful appreciation to Elisabeth Walton Potter for her help in describing this paintings and providing provenance information.

I am your mother.

I have made love to the moon.

You are a bird, downy garbed,

and not yet ready to fly.

I have drank our earth’s tears.

yet every day I get high.

You are wide-eyed & lovely

filled with questions why?

Partake of my wisdom,

and together,

we shall kiss the sky.

RING OF FIRE

I walk briskly at first.

I shuffle sacred boulders between each foot.

I teeter at the edge of humanity.

I’m perched on the lips of this cup

Brimming over with exquisite insanity

This wonderful world miraculous mathematical equation

and all the earth’s treasures scattered before me

I skirt precpices , one side to the other

a crcle game aornd this tismuminuss world

we call the ring of fire

I jump high, I  rise, I sail, I soar

up & over, south   west,

then down into the east

up & over then under back,

over & over  over agans

under and up and over again,

It’s such great fun, I’ll do it again,

Jump, I jump, I take a high dive,

I sky dive into the heart of this miraclos world

I am a skimming stone on a great pond

we call the ring of fire.

 

A spiraling orb of sea-green blue burst into a ball of ruby-red flames, leaving nothing in its wake but silence. In the dark we were wrapped in an inky coat of inner knowing. You beside me smiling that smile only you can smile said loud and clear, ‘Everything will be just fine’. Isn’t that the truth, for sure enough, you said , “Let there be light.”, and then there was light.

Our feathered wings were royal purple newly sprouted. Dancing with joy from one cloud to another, we flew into our future with souls unconquerable; our unshakable faith in the glory of certain salvation, mesmerized by the arresting beauty of perfect faith. We smiled that smile that only knowing God can bring. Pure joy, we filled the world with pure joy. That’s the truth.

pur

In this dream, I am falling free without fear. Suddenly, my descent is intercepted by swift moving clouds. Each one has a distinct face yet they all share the same radiant smile. They carry me along for thousands of miles, pointing out strange and wonderful lands. The spectacular sight below of fantastic creatures roaming free upon a paradise found makes my heart tremble like fine rice paper. In this super world unfolding, predators are never triumphant because predators are never born. Without warning, the cloud faces are gone. I continue gliding along the path of the rising sun in the company of a thousand golden eagles. I soar around our mother earth sailing effortlessly on a grand solar wind in the company of a thousand beautifully plumed golden eagles, and the sky goes on forever

hawk-hfhfh

FANTASTIC DANCE

His ascension came twenty one days to the day he left his beautiful body. A silhouette was all that we could define through the sun drenched smile he wore. It is impossible to mistake his world class smile for that of any other. A starlight flurry of goodness blotted out the pain of our broken hearts just as dawn galloped in.

We told each other later that we had witnessed a chariot of gold sutured with platinum thread; a glistening chassis beriched beyond conception with spinning, light-bolted studs & each masterpiece capped with an astonishing precious gem. Some jewels were not of this world. Some jewels were not even of this universe… such magnificence as none of us had ever seen nor would ever see again… a true sweet chariot of the gods propelled by the holy willed power of four & twenty black maned stallions of equal majesty. They pulled the suns & moons from galaxies nearest our own across a royal blue-blooded, yoke-tinged, cobra-laced sky.

Our souls, bedazzled & breathless, reflexively thrust an ovation onto the astrolabe of dawn. Only delicate golden orioles could be heard singing good morning to this beautiful day. Alex preferred it this way. In a favorite past incarnation he was a Roman Augur, therefore his heart was rich with fondness for every winged being he ever knew.

Ruby red diamonds, yellows, blues & Tahitian black pearls from yet another sweet time & place rained upon everyone~ pulsing unified code~surfing crazy shiny-mind waves of Mother Milky Way. Their mirrors reflected wondrous images. Among them were holy men washing the feet of beggar men & the women who keep the fires burning dancing a fantastic dance, millions of them & more but numbers do not go up that high, especially where numbers don’t count at all.

There were many women dancing a fantastic dance. I was reminded of the Black ladies who sing the gospels; from the hips, hands to the sky, left then right; a supplication out to front then down to the ground, over & over & over again. There were smiles everywhere & love, joy & more joy. If you could get close enough to these mahogany ladies you’d find that there is a lot of space & a great freedom around each one, yet from a distance they look packed together moving in unison; perfect choreography like a water dance; up, down, left, right & happy. Did I mention happy?

This must be the part of heaven God has reserved for poets, from the first poet to the last, from infant poets to great ancient oracles. Everything alive & electrical is heading the same way. Everyone loving the same because love moves in the same direction as our galaxy & the cosmos. It must be the joy of the spiral, from helical strands of DNA to the great spiraling universes. It is a perpetual blossoming. It makes a happy sound. Our nature is a happy sound. Laughter. Smiles. It is a great way to live. It would be a wonderful way to die if there was such a thing as death.

Alex smiled his way throughout the universe just as he had done throughout our lives. He never cared for anything in the world but pure love. God loved him for that. We all did. We all do. More than anything else, more than his mind blowing mastery of numerous forms of art & branches of science, Alex Johns was a great poet. They say the same about saints who come to visit us. The love of great poets defies profound. Such purity of soul makes you want to cry. I don’t know why they bother with us unless it is because they love us so much… as much as we love them.

And so it was. So it is.

 

 

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