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GGGPPP LLLaaa iiinnn sssbbbuuu rrr yyy
The Psychopathology of (Northern) College Life
Y OU RUN ON AHEAD ? DO YOU DO SO AS A HERDSMAN ? OR AS AN EXCEPTION ? THIRD POSSIBILITY WOULD BE AS A DESERTER . F IRST QUESTION OF CONSCIENCE .
FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE , TWILIGHT OF THE IDOLS (M AXIMS AND ARROWS 37)
a place where allare neither fishnor fowl
the secretary just a bit too smart
to be satisfiedmanaginga mid-size office
the teacherwho doesn t really like kids
or whom kidsdont like
or who cant keep his mouth shutat meetings
work well w/others
all those MEdsw/academic pretensions
the MA w/connections&/or charisma
various permutations ofthe academicnot interested enough
in her subjectto continue work
beyond the dissertationthe frustrated professorsw/out proper lecture theatre
too much libidofor priesthood or wifesublimating desireendless preparation
jogging
the English instructor whostutters & blushes readingthe dirty bits of the bookshe assigns
the historianwho writes potboiler novelsreplete w/racial stereotypes
the wildlife biologistwho chases bearsfrom the staff parking lot
the chemistw/record of researchobsessed w/ liebenstraum
the physicistwho just cant understand how his students can beso stupid
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the Muslim mathematicianstarving through Ramadan
&, of course, the smugsuperior bastardw/a few poems
in magazinesnobody reads
Oil Wives
IN REVENGE AND IN LOVE W OMAN IS MORE BARBAROUS THAN MAN . FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE , BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL (139)
as recently as five years agothis group of community-minded womenunited by a certain social status
gathered at the Mackenzie Innevery 2 nd Thursday at noondevoting themselves to gossip& good works
there are still some of these quasi-genteel types aroundself-made but mellowed by age, having assumedposts on the board at Lakepoint
the younger wives just arent the same: marrying young & indiscriminately, they knowalmost nothing but that husband will be in campmuch of the year
no worries but for income, for the purchaseof the incredibly gaudy ring she proudly displays
to the salesman as she prices ever newer & largermore expensive pickup trucks, to hirepersonal trainers, rent time in tanning boothsall in preparation: her side of the deal
assuming the object-position in a stripper-fantasy
when he returns late from the Condill every nightfor two weeks after spring breakup
if she is young & particularly beautiful& he dare even suggest a limitto the extension of her credit
her eyes will begin to dart around the roomto assess the situation, lookingfor one more pliant, with an even bigger
income, who can fill her w/even more
good stuff
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jstn foster
vermilion mantle
she is regionalmethodical in placeconsiders the spatiala furtive matter
she is reaching outbelow groundthe open woods near tree-linepilfering from grassespopulus and other perennialsthe indian paintbrush
castilleja miniataappears freshly dippededging the drip-lineof an aspen stand
cloisteredindistinct flowerschiefly conspicuousby reason of large fiery-brightpetal-like bracts enfoldingher leaves alternatenarrowly-lance-likethree lobed and linearsmooth-marginedrevealing three parallel veinsan honest hue of green
a filch under soilroots fastenfrom neighbouring aspena lesser thief of juicesalready partially assimilated
a petty larcenyher tidy hands gripping just enough, no more than a taste
to take fully of othersunderstory, under soilas a parasite in natureshe would be knownmarked by a lossof foliage and green mattera loss
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AAA llleeexxx CCCrrr yyy ddd eeerrr mmm aaa nnn
copper kettle headache
streetwise copper kettle headachetingle pins and tingle needlesplay in the duskshades drawn to trap the lightsticky thoughtful hibernationweighs heavy on store bought sorrowliquid courage holds like religionimposing complex genuflection
frustration
frustration spearheads the painbecause it is so simplethe remedytauntingat much too close a distancecue the fall
a thick, whiteblanket of amnesiaswaddlingpolitely suffocatingsending chills through your idphotographic memory melts awaytime acidic, click
then everything burnsold and used
again
minutes arehot feetpoundinghard pavementwhile muggy, blood soakedair echoes across an unlit expansedripping
release looses the hand that keeps you groundednegative spacebrims with blind fury
pull on thatoldfurcoatdeath, warm like an embracesparks the mental mutinyseenow youve forgotten
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Graham Pearce
S I R E N
by organ and dollar
spent
in exile,
in northyour name on the prescription bottle
shows no constraint
+
why you swam alone
(why you imagined a shark)
is explained by the mutual pity
of having avoided the consequence of twinning
+
when you throw
yourself at the future
a phantom hand holds your wrist
rabbits are the ammunition
in the surprise golden tooth
you wear on your necklace+
the fictions taught me
even if it starts getting betteryoull be chased
Boat to Tahiti
Painted an idea of your bodyMade spaghettiLearned the line through repetition and looking online at aMayan pot, found a gun that might of belonged to __________ and for the first time in a year Im dreaming About you but yr too foreign in yr red shoes and yrwhite sheets, under the influence of ___________
I put a finger up yr shortsand turn on the TV
and they blew each otherup
Futures have dropped off considerably
Its lucky I look good in Eastern jewelryThat I am generous with the jewelryAnd that I can cook.
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MOUNTAINHEAD(for Ken Belford)
In a cultural avalanche
use a time machine.
You wont use a cell phone
in the mountains
you cant call out
even at a cellular level
nobody here understands en glich,
and
landguage is passive.
[China is in the Fraser
the fish too are learning
Mandarin.]
water rushes to the points of physical dislocation
the body spends a few more hours in hibernation
beneath a library of snow
You peel back a bandage from your inner left elbow
your skin is affected by the antiseptic and cotton
the lowercases, the residueleft from the tape
The bruise left by the Red Cross needle
tastes warm
and raised
You exhaust my sensory memory,
shapeshifter.
Gives cause.
The metamorphosis begins in a chrysalis
on both sides of the river
Crossing water changes the body
The hinge moment
slows timerubberizes capillaries
smoothes
ventricle walls
blood rushes to the bone breast
plate
The white blood cells collect
where the water is shoulder deep
makes one believe there is a centre. Oh
there are mistakes in the wiring of my spiritual brain
there are breaks in the translations
the lands are multi-tensed
my body is in my
psychology
dont put your feet down
the river comes up to my eyes.
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Alexander Renaud
esoterotic
This poem is a methd 1
for entertainment directing satyr playsin the purgatorybetween Westernized ukiyo-erevivaland Belgium.
This ghost theory is drugged
for deployment in Dirac'sseaWhere negativity sharks,between feedingon limbics and trite, tell me
`Your pedantics are tired
for hours they've walkedin ejectoplasm, socks soggywith auto-neuroticism.
1 Okay, its probably not that good
Your foot faults are wired
to the wide bandthat feeds drip data (dumb itch,that needs fixing). An e-boner for
for lyric cynicism crosses the white line.UhmmmMawtschpeuynt.
You can't be serious!
I snort. It's a toy,supplementary to sighs and summer's blush: addiction, mal-leable bric--brac in a whackeconomy. The money is waxedprosaics and the proletry heap:So wherefore a party when random thoughts can romanticize onnothingness? 1
For mine own self, it's true. Above all... shit? Wit? What?
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fine fantasies
an ingnue flails, dismissing reason
with a quick sketch that shows what might have been when may have been was but a breath away... in a bird-song's stillness held back.
~
le soleil se lve and a twitter charms the painter's ansthetized daydream. la fe overtlyflutters her gossamer film over his vision: the sky is pink and parenthetical, and he is longing one heart at a time. The spell woven, those wine-dark eyelids close, and widened lips hint to an eglantine dream at her expense.
~
~
knee deep in the shallow end,
he cuts her reed and plays with his flute they make ugly music
~
I frown a little at the hopelessnessin a waxing moon smile that comesfrom crossed legs, when tight jeans cleftthe ass's palate.Mona Lisa lips intimate. Lo, a nubilestory asks a theme of my eyes.A perplexed malevolence staresback at her.
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ephemeral ad ventures.fourths, daring, chiming, charming &swordless: the pressured air, smiling fancies off.
dance in mirror- ed chandeliers, Thoughtqueen at the phosphene ball, following tawny lees and crystal- line finger traces, whining and dying for release
[stop the drumming.raindrops fill the silence.between us imagination istangible.(to breathe disappointment sweeps the dusty heart).nervousbreakdowns and wish horses in flight whimsy be my saddle.]
under the constellations, thrumming threads loom over her, Phaes- poria; with a luminescent maskshe brings exquisite nothing- ness); miss, fill my temples
with sighs & melodi- o- us intent (ions [String me along) thick candle-smoke ribbons.we explore
the muses' workshops for sonorous flint & fuse.] and ignite a euphoric seizure buried somewhere in the lightness of being
TTTaaa nnn yyyaaa CCClllaaa rrr yyy
full access
i was unfaithfuli lived as i chosei lived only to haunt you
i died so i could have you-Stars
to soul, offeredon plate garnished w/ basil &unprocessed granules of salt, intended for gums of our
mouths
we eat like fucking birds in this place
full access, to youfor free
sits bones spread, shaved, peeled and ready-to-eat
if i had one
a Soul that is
ill only give whats left to the person whose heel will fitperfectly
into the pit of my arm
settle for nothing less, my child
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condition/ing of friendship
elevated-
&/ or too- grounded, teeter-totter/ing
function/ingclassical condition/ing
high-power low-power playground invention
battle positions, noncommittal obligation to other endlow authority controls one dangling -role, responsibility
relinquished
its all fun and games until someoneloses [an eye]
or cant get down
hanging high, a fraction of the sport, neglecting the spaces [in] betweenfun fun fun when the other takes up ground position
grounded/less
the iron/ic equipmentbalance design failuredoomed for Pavlovian start
letter to my children
Girls,
Im sorry I broke your Dad. I didnt mean to.
Love, Mom
Barry McKinnon
Retinal Detachment
worry to fear. the line between meaning ...only eyes that half a world is dim, milky, sadIll do my best, the rest seems a rustling fate in the wallthe arrogance of immunity
impugned/ be humble human at last orrecognize it can be its beginning - the accumulated past
its only you.
threat of lossto become a strength?
in the hospital silence, waiting crazed scream/ of wordless condition
how lucky you are to getthis far - the measure & corporeal recognition: in the land of the blind the one eyed man is king
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in the transluscence palpable separation that the world is 3 inches offin my walk and reach though never, in my unrequited fate, sensed mypart
such it is with luckwhat my mother said looking for the hidden blessing
the hidden blessing
here the silence of the sick to say ... to know their powernot to complain
otherwise, it was May, me on my way, happy to be each day
shadows/detachment subdued in the palpable enormityto become all of me
- its diminishment(if this is about anything
this / distortedsense of being the blind will see
MMM aaa ttt eeeuuu ssszzz PPPaaa rrr ttt yyykkk aaa
hye
Hye!
on peyote and shopping for used booksi met a stuttering frenchman
poor punk peddler
who (2c)b-linedfor me
who wanted a momentfor alms
and who didn't showercause wednesday is the hump
he grew dejectedwhen i stripped my empty pockets onto the floorbut regleamed in the light of my pupilsbecause I remembered
that he wasn't hungry and broke just trapped in the city
the concrete bodyof money and masses
the blind windowsand street car teeth
the stomach of meat
too rich for young angels
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the sinking pitthe concentric circles
charity existswithout predisposition
Pierre was searching for the train that ever departsand I handed him a blue pillto color his irisyellow lightning
security camebut couldn't reach him in time
Atlantis the Vacation Cities
Maui girls feign the minute romanceon my bar tab
credit card
dollar drinks less a real beerstill cash twenty dollars
to feel liquid
what sirens havent been caughtby long liners
are self sentencedto the island mentalityand escape
the continental divides the worldinto vacation cities
but no cure existsin her bed frame
_________________________________ the volcano
erupts
Josh Massey
Industrial Exorcism
flares from stack blaze vertical, knotted silver pipes
and cylinders and valves and blah and smoke and sulfur and blah
pigging, rigging, roadside warningamethyst crusher, feldspar smasher
am human feeder am rolling the roadblock, the flaming trash cycle
the trucks, the faces, the cough plumes the wet steel widgets the crank band the blah the aluminum walls, the debit, the head office the blah
the oiled hand, the plastic grip, the AHHHHH the megalitres the megawatts the swan pond
the BLAHHHHH, the BLAHHHHH the AHHHHH, the AHHHHHH
the hot chemical reek of contiguous brush the high voltage the AHHHHH, the AHHHHHHHHH
pipe to faces and rotor expressionless behind wipers cold-cut gullet process
scrunched food wrappings to oiled hip over ripe socks
cells scream AHHHHHH. The AHHHHHHH the mud, the clam the halibut-
eyed person the agent the flare the flame the river the agent the cheque the shotgun shell
the frass, the pigging, the rigging the needle the carotid the AHHHHH the BLAHHHH,the AHHHHHHHHH
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worship the warship worship the warship worship the warshipworship the warship worship the warship worship the warship worship the warshipworship the warship worship the warship worship not the warship worship not the warship worship is wrong worship is cruel warship worship wave warship worship wave warship worshipwave warship worship wave sail warship worship wave sail warship worship wave sail islandwarship worship wave sail siren.
the audience at war withthe performers
the audience destroys the performance
a performer risesfrom the audience and starts firing
Poem with StarbuKs Coffee in Parking Lot
RVs stationed in the radiant WaL-mart plain passports and lottery tickets on the dashboardslike judgment day ledgers. mile 0: the freedom of this Alaska Highway will take them all to their retirement subarus hitched to the tails of 50 foot bigFoots now stalled in the glistening evening so hotgrampas with aviators & helmeted hair and steel-wool neck hair
discuss over metallic travel mugs the rise of fuel prices
the remortgaging of the house and their chil drens debt
tanned men with unironic mullets and blonde arm hair heave grocery bags of provisionsinto the truck cabin in fulfilled armfuls now this magpie-sung morning of shoppers rising over mochaccinos; and, in the distance: the polished pipes of thepatch glisten silvery like aluminum minarets in the ungulating vista of hyper crop canola fluorescent and portentous
their disappearing act: to be laid to restin a tote box padded with gel packs and cotton batting outback the warehouse with billowing bags for headstonesstrung from tangled fishing rodssecured in empty folgers containers packed with fertilizer a dirge of combustion engines and a pall bearerconstructed of rusted chains & gearsdroning futurist psalms & anointing the tombs with motor oil.
hoarse, whispering
kickin it out back the grocers on milk crates laughing and passing sherry with the natives
near the burial garden did you steal their stone by taking stock of which mean image to guide a strange traveler though the cedar chip tombs abalone bowers and the pox of dead gems
what's writ white is your repeated phantasm get outa here you no good nah fat chance eh
butt-end of mop in my gut proof of strength i'm not one of the grubs i'm my own butterfly
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list of old debts as skulls in disavowed landfill and back rooms are for the harder digital stuff
deformed mattresses spring at night - muhaha joyce taps his cane through bonnie sad wood
of sam beckett's 'whoreoscope' and krapp's tapedinanities hissed from the grate in gotham handof mother i have strayed too far to ably repeatthe couplets you echoed in my unconscious ear
eternal athlete hanging
The guests always linger around it, the hills and the valleys cast in adreamy deeper blue and mauve, and finally no light but emerging star.
She skis through the trenches of snow, in the forest and sometimesthrough the bright openings, which become pools of shadow when thefire is stoked; planting her poles in front, then her body catching up asshe drives her hips forward and glides ahead, approaching adestination behind the mountain where a peace, rose garland grows,her scarf and wool hat in haphazard attitudes, the slither of her skis,forward, never tiring, the eternal athlete of the landscape, play ofshadow over grooves and daubs in the acrylic.
Sipping hot chocolate absorbing the border between art and life, howsomeone can escape through the waxen medium, so too the painter'sbrush spiraling to break trail. For the heart to follow to a point behindthe mountain.
Gathered beside the stone hearth, to marvel at her perseverance,ambient embers casting her in different attitudes throughout the daysand nights at the chaletthese winy hours of our aprs-ski, but how she is still off on her journeytoward the mountain which will never end.
TTTyyy llleee rrr CCCrrr iiiccckkk
Halloween at the Don Valley Brickworksa piece of fictional history
I. The Push
That bruised yellow bus was a hand basket rocketing from the crypt of city lights straight to someones undiscovered form of hell. We hugged the seats ahead with a level of excitement reserved for the abyss, and we stared at each other in order to side-eye our neighbours night-hungry deviants, disguised as things tamer than themselves, such as half-formed werewolves and the gentleman Hyde.
When the bus finally docked, it was oppressed with silencebefore storms and manic auteurs of the out-world scene, waiting for space to pace. The door opened and we fe ll out of the bus, left to spin in circles, sandwiched between violentlyrich mansions on one side and a valley of doll-trees on the other, wondering for a moment if we hadfinally gone too far.
But this was the Don Valley, and someone found the trail a breadcrumb pathof glow sticks, which wrote over our doubts with the notion that a house of loaded sugar cubes waited for us at the end. Half way down the slope, past receding trees, we spied a wild dog on its hindlegs, its fly unzipped, pissing against a tree and looking back at its pack while their cameras flashedhim in return.
One of us claimed to hear sounds in the next room, wondering how it was possible considering our locale. His body stayed close to us after that but his mind was at large,
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until we bottomed out to a wide view of a bridge over uncharted waters, ending in a trio of lightbulbs guarding the brick ante-room, unsheathing any person-things that had silently joined us in the slick blacktrees. We scurried across that threshold, roaches out of the drainof the city, just out for a breath of fresh air. The trail inside continued as candles, worming forward through a dark
doorway,
the other side of which we found an enormous, crumbling grave of the industrial revolution. Here we saw unexpected amounts of others, huddled in teams and exploring,looking for incredible kicks, flashing their lights at our engorged pupils.
A quick sweep made it clear that the night was a four headed beast the writhing snake den of enormous techno-beats and blue smiling faces; the rock show, trying to coax the generator into submitting to the productionof riffs; a lamb, roasting on an inverted cross, stared up towards by the severed head ofa pig; and the vast deposits of promising, uninhabited darkness. When faced with a night so heinous, its important to keep a tight belt and a loose mind.
II. The Peak
A sugar cube each doctors orders and a bump or twoprescribed by a different doctor from across town,and administered from the space between creaking hairy knuckles.
Courageous at last, we went forth into the castle of dismantled memories,eyes rolling and neck-hair throbbing.This was the time to conquer the summertime void;straight to the tremendous, smoke painted ovens, each the length of tenbusses,to skip, climb, and fall over half-baked piles of bricks, nowhousing birds making nests of needles.A cell phone glow ahead illuminated slivers of an ambitious graffiti muralsigned 15 years ago,spanning the dead end tunnel from finish to finish and absorbing ourthoughts like microvilli in an intestine.
A short lived debate ensued about the absence of valour in graffiticreated under such absolute cover.
Above hung a system of walkways and metal staircases, ripe withpotentialfor tetanus slips and the parting of skin.We mounted these ramparts and stepped tenderly around thestratosphere of the Brickworks, looking down at the two islands of litpeople,circled by flash-lit outliers, floating in the waveless void,a void which we knew somewhere kept the lamb and the pig visuallyand spiritually submerged.
The vibration of the girders meant the generator had finally been tamed,finally began producing current to feedthe wall of amps, which would then feed the crowd,the circle of life complete.The band, backed by one bright light, and wearing crimsonmonastery robes,sent one unified riff through the Kings court, an electric bowling ballploughing through the calm.
The lights scattered among the uncharted depths heeded this siren call,drawn to those charismatic ministersof tinnitus.They gathered along known paths, forming writhing eels of lightwhich fed into the increasingly enormous jellyfish, until an octopus wasformed,flapping and billowing under a gathering cloud
of rising, murky air -industrys persistent ghost.
In rapture at this spectacle, we passively lingered on the ramparts,survival-gripping on the railing in front of us,as though afraid the disparate creature belowmay somehow become conscious of the potentialheft of its unityand level the vicinity.
The e-bow preachers seceded the chapel to Missile Command,a duo devised for controversy,
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equal parts Devo and Artaud -one used his synthesizer as a launch pad
for his works of artand fire,while those on the front lines thrust backwards againstan unyielding crowd; operation human shield.The second of the pair took up the microphone,tore off his shirt,carved a lazy S on his chest with a punk rock beer bottle,and delivered the terms of engagement.
Arresting as this spectacle was,wed been binging on pacifism in those days, and so sought out the other crowd, known themselves to indulge inpacifiers.
Engaging in random acts of violently alternative meaning,this crowd perceived the essence of sex on the beach to besex in the dirt.Nonetheless we appropriated the velocity of their near reproductivefrenzy into our own form of Tilt-A-Whirl dance.In the shadowed vacancy behind the self-lit crowd,our movements resembled figure skaterscross-bred with penguins;clumsy, and spun.
III. The Descent
By dawn, the battery of the crowd had lost most of its charge from theflight ofsuspected vampires that had learned to read the foreshadow of the sun inthe sub-text of the night.
The rest of us smeared our lids across the build-upof crud on our eyeballsgazing at each other with disbelief as familiars often do,having shed their nighttime visages.
As the last of the cunning musicians tenderly tore their aural bandages
from our tedium-burnt brains,we resisted the urge to assess the progression of the repairs.The minds conversion of stimuli into soul -fuel takes time
and besides,we had a tendency to burn it as we got it.Some had decided to continue to maintain their cranial hums -one last kick to ensure a triumphant return.Their relentless chatter was a welcome mute to theperversely wholesome silence of mansion-land,as some of us had lost our willto speak,having squandered our inheritanceof significationon a spiderwebbing procession of inner monologues,and jammed our memories full of powdery linesof self-indulgent poetry,much like these.
By the time we reached the bus, fresh 9-5 faces had beguntheir pilgrimage, unfortunatelyfor them.The sight of us briefly broke their tenuous agreementof self, which insists that they have at least some ideaof what goes on in the world when they arent watching.
The lack of texture on the bus trip home allowedentire chunks of time to slip through the battle-worn
grip of my mind.
By the time I spaced out of the bus and onto the sidewalk,the profoundly exaggerated passage of time had amputatedme from my 2-hours-ago-self.
If it werent for storytelling, the world would overflow with orphaned versions of myself,left behind to experience each moment in an indefinite void.
Somewhere in the near distance I heard a 50 foot talldeck of cards being shuffled endlessly and considered that
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it may be best to walk the long way around the block.
Braving a potential stumble onto a site of manifest surrealism,I turned a corner into the park,
where the canopy of tree leaves was superseded by a canopy of birds,endlessly and maniacally weaving a billowing feather-covered cloud,which nearly eclipsed the sun,the complexity reminding me that despite all of my conjecture,I was still just a pirouetting penguin.
Shane Darroch
Temporal Isolation
Kerosene corrodes the facesof this tavern parliamentwhile I read the latest articleon the metaphysics oftesticular injuries
Ive forgotten your erect nipples my prescription has expired
must I do another Bangkok body shoton the Reeperbahn train
Trapped in temporal isolationthe neon lights burstthe last border is openedmy cigarettes turn to dust
Madness
I lament for madness
while looking through a tar covered window
at the white sand and roaring ocean
My glass of rum is empty
a sweaty hand reaches for my cigarettes
new smoke lingers for a moment
then merges with the toxic air
A figure in the bed stirs
I pour an other
the ceiling fan sputters then stops
and I lament for madness
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I HAD NOTHING TO OFFER
ANYBODY EXCEPT MY OWN
CONFUSION
Jack Kerouac
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