through the corridor where I have been beaten before, some yelled, stop, you are bleeding, on the plate-glass floor, I yelled I am out the door, walking beside this river, the sandbar quivers as the flood rises higher, someone screamed the mules, in forty acres of wilderness, under the dress of liberty’s freedom, at fire direction control I became bold, walking on the paddies growing fried rice, I was super nice, calling the shells of artillery, this macaroni of pesto covered delight, so many disappeared from our sight, Josephine held me tight, whispering I love the way you do the things you do, references to the mopping up operations for the French colonial mission, this wilderness of civilization, adrift in a sea of educational illusion, inhaling the vapors of this despair in god we trust, catching the bus, rows of Egyptian cotton are headlines for this vision of American decline, now at the end of this pipeline of trinkets, and beads are they mine, still digging through time being buried in a pyramid’s eye

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