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Tuesday, January 27, 2009

I-95

Just give me a heart attack at the wheel of a gas tanker,
I’ll flip my rig over the guardrail, O!

even the overpass,
like a goose with a broken neck exploding
on the road below,
let smoke of the phoenix flow
up toward the airplanes
flying so high in the friendly skies
above the summer mist,
so burned beyond recognition
you’ll have to call the dentist.
I’m now forever

the mother of computer reenactments,
muter than the asphalt
and that great blue endless sky.

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