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conniption fit —So the brain has its ups and down, the body follows. Chemical-rushed, fabricated or not, each neuron is doused with mood: tickle-pink or correct blue. Muscles slackened or on edge, the response defined by what floods in (punk-studded, fireworks). Not a fuzzy feeling lodged behind the brain’s undoing, nothing can keep it from that. Not ice for a center, (though you’ve been called that: icy) its engine warmth corrodes the mechanism, loosens the cannon. Adrenaline, not testosterone, incites it: faulty wire, a tip-off that keeps tipping back spinally until the whole organic thing is lit and the staircase up to the loft is barricaded. Who said it doesn’t burn? Anger has its drillings: the mined-for comeback, the staying power of grudge-work. Knucklehead, this yarn ball has no start or end. I’ll cool mine, you yours. There are other fits to be had: nutshell, abstraction, the gods, fiddle. We should bring to standstill this tornadic row, kiss goodbye this streak of mean. 33 ...

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