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27 Tokyo: A Parable There is a bar in Tokyo where sushi arrives on the plate of a naked woman. There is a Tokyo in sushi, microbes in microbe high-rises, where the plate of a naked woman arrives on a bar in a bar named for some ridiculous fish or movie star. When Tokyo arrives, I hail her with my shorn chopsticks now resting on the plate of a naked woman named for some ridiculous fish or movie star. On a bar in a bar named for the city that birthed it, naked women rest on their white fainting couches waiting for Tokyo to arrive. I hail with my movie stars and fish, puffing my ridiculous chest. High-rises rise around the bar in a bar, like naked women. Wait. They are naked women. Wait, Tokyo. Don’t go. A weight rests on my naked chest like a plate of sushi or a bad tattoo. It is the profile of you, naked, that arrives on the horizon of my chest as a freckle constellation, or the bubbles a fish puffs on the fainting couch of a sand bar’s slow strangle, whose arrival a woman on the shore hails with her naked knife. And if she is ridiculously hungry, her name is Tokyo. ...

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