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The book is just a city
bereft of avenues
but teeming with alleyways
animated by bossy sky rats
and the guys who yell, unbuttoned,
into Nothing

It’s where we lose our minds
a little, heady with cheap Chinese
offered out of stainless caravans
and woozy from the joint
which once stabled the Framer’s horses
but now serves pricey crafts

I dunno

Could be the city’s
getting away from me a little,
a palimpsest whose strata
of voices strains our eyes,
makes them go red
in the inarticulate twilight

On some other day
I could have perfected
my charts, consulted Madame
Blavatsky, discerned my fate
not in her oracular tongues
but in the ashen bags propping up her eyes

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