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Jo Jo's Fireworks-Next Exit Past the turpentine camps, brilliant green lamps held by woozy militiamen, the car with a nose of its own, with headlight-eyes, sniffs through the mountain fog, heart palpitating, belly hungry for gasoline pancakes. Ghettos rave in their sleep, butchering alto solos, harvesting white snakes. The car, evermore threadbare, feels lost on Chevrolet Avenue, a victim of the Taxi Wars. Salamanders glow like tiny cutlets and each Inn is in secret a detention barracks, each exit an entrance to underground cuniculi, concatenation of clandestine suburbs from which there is no escape until dawn, when bellboys are young. 221 ...

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