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Glare through the windshield as if heat had ruined the city and the windshield, congealing them in the buttery amber of dirty oil. Although you can hardly see the silhouettes riding back and forth across your vision, you expect photography might provide some record of visual textures, if never actual events, actual insides. Certainly somebody must have some sort of document, some sort of figuration. Some such fluid flesh. Go poetry! Go afternoon!

HK itinerates out of French fumes to anoint you with the Pork Manioc Baton. Bless you, scoffing muffles inside Black Electrical Tape on one side, summers on the other Irish Cream Vim. Your cracks smoothed via emollient gravy of Train Corpuscle Galls, your Sahel noodling Bingo! Zeppelin Guitarism, goose necked Bottled Tonality Odor. Waving away fungal toe forest, waving away Surf Echo Dubbing, waiting away Mock Time Contusions. Bless you and your little thing, she’s holding the Pork Manioc Baton. Inner rift lifts it above Zeppelin Guitarism, you say (as an aside through a mayonnaise crack), “Insect galls in oak forests remind me of walnut balls.” Anglo-Saxon fumes secrete deteriorated saturate of HK*.

*Henry Kissinger

May 2012
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