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Monday, March 30, 2009


“Intelligence is the ability
to recognize patterns.”

Sitting in a rented room
a song comes on the radio
that you sang to me once
when I was dreaming.

In a dream,
you sang a song
that came on the radio
once, in a rented room.

The song that you sang,
sitting in a rented room,
comes on the radio.
I discovered I had been dreaming.

A song comes on the radio.
It was a dream I had,
in a rented room,
that you sang it.

It was a method of explication I had, an apparatus of expression, of heavy-set eyes. You would assume if there were two doors, one labeled “right door” that the other would be called “wrong door”. Or was it “left door”? Can you even believe it? Can you even imagine two doors, in a room, or out of it? Are they mishandled? Are they platinum plaited? Are they at all like your hair? Do they remind of something that smells nice? Something like your mother?

Is this an event? Who are the caterers? How much do you pay for a room like this? Is this cream or white silk, draping the chairs? Where did this salmon swim, when it was alive? How many Daniels and Amys and Rachels and Roberts are here? How could it matter?

Rickety Fucking Chair.
Rackety Facking Char.
Rack Fractal Chai.
Refracting Choir.
Funeral Pire.

After you read this,
I thought it was stupid
and burned it up. A million
pieces doesn’t begin
to describe it.
Right? Right.

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