marathons, la fin du monde, etc

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a sad dork at the end of

a long country road, sustaining her-

self by listening to

country techno music.  a car doesn’t

approach, but the sky begins

to turn red.  Then it is striped

by blue and the music changes to

something organic and orchestral.  she continues

running into the future, cutting back

into the past on occasion.  the end of the road,

she’s heard, explores the sea and the ideas

that have been called

platonic and smooth, sometimes choppy, but essentially

western in orientation.

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lemon loves lime

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an aluminum can talks to

the lips of a beautiful woman,

it speaks words, it proclaims

sprite and

root beer.  The saga it tells is

cosmic and

carbonated all at once.  they are frozen in

time, however, and plastered

on the side of a great big

highway.  the cars, they

drive by, but they don’t know, they

don’t know what true love is.

information masquerading as story, story masquerading as people

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The tailor puts away the taco

and trips onto the plaza where

the rally was the night before.  the women

gathered from the ends of the city and even

from the countryside.  they held up signs

declaring their love

of men, ‘we can’t do without you!’  ‘we like

it when you talk to us!’ ‘there is hope in your

loins!’  when he picks himself up

and wipes off the dried meat from

his suit, there is still one

woman in the square that he

sees.  she is young, but he

enjoys the way that she is crying for

how his suit is spoiled.

a title for a man is a description for the furies

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at the end of an age of

information, there will be an age of

romance, said the

monk staying in what was once called

persia.  a solid man, the monk

was soaked wet and

perspiring from all that he vowed,

poverty and effort to lift

the citizens out from the flood,  the flood is

from wounds and the wounds are from

anger.  they are drowning, but not

for fear of swimming.

post craftmatic adjustable bed

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when we gather our things, broken

cd players, worn shoes without laces and

empty pieces

of bread, we walk west.  it isn’t

much of a destination, there isn’t

water past there and then there

is too much water, but the sky turns

into pastels at a certain point, the

the ground runs into a peach colour

and sky gets separated by

a woman called pochahontas.  she

tries to tell us to empty our things, but

the crayons come out of her mouth and

all we can do it colour with them.

gonna fight thee

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the cider is sweet, too much

for you.  you ask the soldiers to

wait outside because you want to

finish it anyway.  they hesitate because of

the snow, but drop your chin and swallow.  the

silence in the air adds weight to your order and

the three men follow one another.  you turn

to the young family and

hold the girl, then return her to her mother.

she stops and starts crying intermittently.  the

bartender asks if you’d like more,

but you tell him no, that this was a religious experience,

this child born was promised to you by

a dead priest.

eye lashes et al

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I was lost in the air

for many years now, first I came

in the form of grape and the

men would drink me

with breakfast if they

were hard or wanted

to be left alone.  I spilled over into midday

as well-water, embracing the dust

when I was carried over long distances and then

at night, at first I was grappa, then ouzo,

then arak and finally, I became air and watched

when two lovers met, I was between their

eyes and then their finger tips

and finally the tiny hairs at

the edges of their cheeks, hovering

just micro seconds

away from total bliss.

executed by beheading in A,d,

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When I take off my helmet

and the stories of my death

get reported to the

ends of the empire, I’ll know

that I was a danger to peace, the

peace that produced herod and the

kings of old.  I’ll take in the flowers at

the foot of the volcano.  they’ll tell me

to forget the

sea, then to forget the

land, then to forget

the land.  I’ll be amphibious

and then on fire,  I’ll have chillis

on my sword, then on my

toes.

cross stitched saturdays

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One of the benefits of fighting

in giant wars is that

they have these great big

fires that tear through towns.  they

warm a man’s hands.  ‘ and for the soul of the

world.  I want to cry right now.  It’s crazy from

my government, thinking they can kill the desire

of millions of people’

A bull, with hairs like fine

rice, straight and

solid, he runs in circles, past paintings

and cement factories, through to

the docks and into the sea.