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the glue holds the gutters in. the rhetoric's a loose-leaf apprentice.


Cracks in the oracular self I'm splitting open, splicing states of conscious-

ness onto what? Locomotive sound wings? A burnt rabbit in the trap &

a rabid set of number laws the numb part of me knuckles up to.

Tell it to the sludge, the oil slick, the slippage ousting us from Ollie-Ollie-


oxen-free central. I've got a drawer full of keys that bend by themselves.

Magic Realism, mute narration or just plain jack-in-the-box psychosis?










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