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ILMARS PURENS TRUCK ODE My friend with the beautiful hair has his own truck, his own truck, has his very own truck with terrible tires, he says, but room enough for a wife, a dog, a daughter with a ribbon and a rubber duck My friend (with the truck) flies out to Montauk Point for a day, or a year, or a year and a day on the magnificent gasoline wings of his truck He toasts tunafish sandwiches on the green grass of Sheepshead and tells Jersey City it sucks in the baroque splendor of his truck He unlocks the mysteries of internal combustion fashions phrases for Buzzy, like "What the fuck?" from the fancy greek pavilions of his truck With excellent compression he can rev it up and let it go, or let it go and rev it up, or stay parked at the curb with a quart of gin feel absolute power like an absolute King In the secret chambers of his truck he can laugh at the slaughter of infants in Ulster or openly scoff at the paintings of Rubens sequestered in the private domain of his truck What a piece of luck! He can decorate it with decals of Donald Duck My friend feels free in the chains of his truck I am happy for my friend with the beautiful hair with the wonderful, wonderful* truck. ...


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