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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.

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