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| Each Rub Too many night time regimens have driven through me like driving through East L.A. Too many certainties have crossed my face leaving trails of bitter juice (Don't ask what it means . . . I don't know. It means something I don't know . . . yet do.) Too many moments in the day are well lit through and through, like saloons at noon, with the shades up, light hitting the dirty floor, with an immutable fist and no one there to see the drunk laid out like a metaphor for the city. Too many dreams are cadaverous jumbles of this piece not fitting with that one, long arms of thought falling over the edge of my bed in a wrestling match between me and my beloved homunculus who knows every fucking thing there is to know, yet tells so little of it all, and so arcanely when he does. Too many days of . . . earth quake set traps blue breaths world jitters ozone fever fears of hitting splitting sidewalks machine gun reality flashes of wonder new blood on old bricks thunder of dead news weeping blues echoed songs of bad night last night all wrong windows burning hovel-hope deathly steam-in-the-eyes finger tips pressed on cold skies. Too many lives rubbing the air, getting greedier with each rub. | |||
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