Tuesday, 2 A.M.
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20 Tuesday, 2 A.M. Then the monk became a hawk and the hawk became a clown who counted on an abacus the innocent dead and I woke in my America and read about the boy who was killed while I was sleeping. He didn’t have a gun— he was brandishing a hairbrush— but the cops thought he did so they shot twenty times. Right before I woke the clown became a phone and the phone was the old kind with holes for a dial and it didn’t stop ringing even when retrieved. My country is the child who squirms in her stroller in a stalled subway car. My country is the wet piece of sweet-flavored plastic put inside the child’s mouth to silence her surge. I am a waker, blistered by morning 21 who, right before the ringing, was dreaming of a heart surrounded by pistols and the pistols pointed outward and the muscle pumped blood. ...


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