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173 COREY VAN LANDINGHAM THIS WORLD IS ONLY GOING TO BREAK YOUR HEART Space has been shut off for summer, etc. In the last shuttle launched, I am told to love a piece of earth. Then metal. Then the optics behind the things I hold in my hand. I am told: be simple. Only love what you can bear to break in half. Evenings I spar with a giant insect that while I fall asleep wants to comb my hair. Into the ear on the floor it croons, You are the most delicious industrial revolution. Paintings I have pilfered adhere to the ceiling, so that when I feel like walking I walk under ponds with lily pads like drowned hats, all the eyes I can’t see hidden above them now, about to burst. I don’t often feel like walking, having heard the announcement that I am stuck out here with Decisions To Make. What graffiti will be unbirthed. Which hills will turn white with bones. Pathogens. When I flinch into an unimpressive sleep, I will dislodge some unimpressive planet with a terrain that shakes under a red sky like a syphilitic man. A man with the feet of a goat. I try not to sleep. There is day, then there is later day. 174 When an equation prints out onto my tongue, I do my best to solve it. Sure, there are things that I miss. Tornadoes. The idea of brothers. Distinguished dogs with cauldrons of summer saliva. Once, I even felt holy. It was at the throes of an orange tree. I could have been stoned to death and still would have sung out Tongue! Barren tongue! There were ghosts up here. But they were shut off long ago, when I tried to put my arms around them and was told I’d have to choose between the slaughterhouse and the morgue. I retaliated with apathy. I cut off my ears. ...

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