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Eric Smiarowski |
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(untitled) the buses type from east to west, then the cars race west to east always stopping for that hard southern left where downtown pages strict rent flying space only and bright cracking damsels thirty foot tall shadows wearing red lipstick, red short shorts, and red high heeled shot glasses. at the table typing about typing about verb phrases in order to cut through the silence between the screen and me after which cigarette will tonight be over? when will I be through the mine field vices and finally stand, purged of my grotesque inadequacies, alongside another perfect human being? will we be on a crescent moon overlooking a maroon volcano sky- or a coastal cliff in the wind; blue sea creating moments in front of a backdrop world? Shit, could be listening to the voices of human mouths saying something about me being wrong- which makes my life the perfect flight of a cigarette butt flung from a happy hand |