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5 Grand Opening With flowers in your hair streaming from slavery’s indigo vats, come to me. With elegies written in purple flames on the white, brown, and black asses of inner-city tattoo parlors, come to me. With an infinite regression of hands over mouths, and mouths over azaleas, with fists of subway concrete, with a cry for autumn and for Ford Motor Company, come to me. Come to me with my cunt on fire, with churchsick touchdowns of despair, with neon organs carpeted with newsprint and three-minute music videos of cherry hoses. Come to me like a bereft cocktail waitress drunk in a trailer in the Florida Keys, and I will come like a monster truck driver with a six-pack of stars and Jim Beam, I will come with a Library of Congress chained to a collar and sworn to its knees. And I will cry the pumping soulless cry against your rosy cheek in the modern vacant vacant and televised, my working mom. ...

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