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the sun in the morning
when your blood is the
thickness of coffee grounds
and your lungs have the consistency of
sea water, polluted sea water. jokes, like
sewage, flow into the hair of the
unwashed. they laugh at
how poor they’ve become. you hail a taxi, the driver
says that you can’t afford a lift,
but you fly to
south america anyway. the air in
scandanavia is so much sweeter. the sound in
spain echoes off the empty buildings. they call out for gunfire and
inquisition, who are they? who wants to know? what language
do they speak? the old french movie stars dive into the
water not to come up again.