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39 on the sleeve Oh, I was angry. The guy was like “you’re a dick” and I was like “No, you’re a dick,” and he was like “I want to kill you” and I was like “No, I want to kill you,” and we kept that up for a good while. But we resolved it so now I’m happy, and the sugars are solid in the flesh of the pear until a gale of diesel exhaust blackens our lunch and soots the café window. Now I feel frustrated at the cosmic antipathy toward eating a decent pear. It’s like this Iraq business, or cancer out of nowhere. One day everyone’s surplussing along, the next day all these people are dead. The guy says “That’s what a dick like you deserves,” and I am angry with him again. Call this a volatile and artless set of moods, paul text i-84 -3.indd 39 7/20/10 3:17 PM 40 self-centered, whatever, but when the dog soldiers come to eat my heart, their red velvet tunics crusted hard in guts that used to be wet, I easily toss them my spleen and as they gnash each other’s haunches in a bloody dog soldier scrum I skip away, keeping my heart, or so one says to stay happy, happy, happy. paul text i-84 -3.indd 40 7/20/10 3:17 PM ...

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