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156 The PAge Words are separating from things You can feel them losing reference bleeding goodbye God for instance what could that possibly mean anymore? or Garbage The word floats free of the smells and the flies the oil spills dead birds It reconnects with its old French roots Garb-a-a-aaje-uh Classy really designer garbage garbage god I had wanted to write about singing on my bike through the early morning Berkeley streets plum blossoms opening cats catting dogs dogging most people still asleep insulated dreaming souls I had wanted to write about what it felt like to love her the slow way she moved thigh on thigh how her snowy face would change frowning almost 157 suffused with passion But Passion Innocence the words are exhausted sliding in History’s transparent gut Language is speaking us so many kids flapping in grandfather’s clothes so many needles in so many grooves Then how come it feels so thin and echoless scribbling here? Scared words in my head yearning to enter into yours The page is a mortal space as the world is a mortal space It’s an opaque white bridge like a synapse and each poet that sets foot on it is dying to get across ...

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