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all these variables |
the pre-storm air, the man staring at me in the blue truck for an hour while i read bukowski and piercy the phone that stays silent through the day (and i'm happy for that) the cramps in my wrist of technology, the cramps in my back of industry, the light that flickers in the room on and off when the light bulb is perfectly fine. maybe it's god, or the ghost of some nun who used to live in this renovated convent, angry at the sodomy, jealous of the flesh, the booze, the molasses nicotine |