I’m not the poet of hands but I type just fine. It’s too late to give up and die in the suburbs bored and alone. As for Africa, well, I’ve read Ross and her reinscription of Rimbaud’s exile by instrumentalized vagabondage is convincing. I wish these orphanage-builders would take note. Watch out for bone caves and Lazzeroni. Make way for frothing blood. Go Timberwolves, class ’09. Clouds float by; we ask, Is it over a piazza? I’ve never seen a piazza or a light and I can hardly remember what a daffodil is. Like diffidence, or easiness. You smell it and it pays you. If I am difficult to “penetrate,” so much the better for me; for you, a series of nails. Flights and flights and flights of stairs. Or roses, I guess. You know, I get very quiet, and then I get very enjambed.
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