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1938 The granite-colored gulls unlocked their wings & the door to a wall swung open. Ghosts ducked through, disappeared, so much spinal cord looped & curved into spider darkness hacked out of a calcium tomb, where water screams back into you. Each night became a red machine. You were cornered in Paris, in the granary where the raw brain snorted like a blue horse & a moneysack of hunger growled. Where shadows of trees pulled your face down to kiss stones. Each day murdered the black clock of your voice, each day, each depravity a pretty woman might throw her arms around, knifed your shadow, Vallejo. Death wore out your boot heels. 44 N EON V ERN A C U L A R ...

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