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I learned in science you can never touch anything. Surrounding every Even when you put on a hat, between your head and it. when I heard my mother Don’t come up here—she cried. I looked up at her, I forgot we walk around
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The earth’s crust is like a cooking pancake in a black iron skillet, except instead of sitting on the stove on top, in our dim museums. Ignoring how much we ignore, How desperate life is to live
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Next time that young bartender grabs the ashtray & throws our ashes to the floor, I’m going to save at least one howling soul. We’ll salsa through these doors magic rebels from what magic usually rebels from: a world sitting next to this one-legged Croatian, I want myself closer to Yugoslavia but I don’t know that language. So I flirt. Tell him—you are, old
man, perfectly in wet sheets & he says I won’t tell you how I lost my leg &
I say
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Across from my mother and me, in the Roy Rogers at the James Fenimore Cooper travel plaza on the New Jersey Turnpike, is an old man with Flirt stitched onto his visor. a drink. No wink. He’s flirting with flirting and attempt to reswallow our hearts. Even if she straightens out, she’s still on fire—my mother said. At night the Turnpike is lit like a wet snake. can relax, nestle in its coils. Yet we dispelling a myth, we clutch our new truth tight:
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Shit—a rusted spot on the bars catches my orange paper suit and tears a hole in the ass. The fatter one looks over, asks why I’m in this get-up anyway. I got arrested at the river, in my bathing suit. We were jumping off the rocks and got in a fight. Some cop turned around exactly when James’ fist caught my chin. Arrested us both. Funny, I tell them, this paper suit is nothing, the only thing warm in here is my swollen cheek. The fatter one, still shaking from the coke they caught her with tells us if it were up to her she’d let us all free. The drunk one lifts her head from the toilet—but when’s it ever been up to you? |