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Hey You You don't have to be a farmer to lovesoybeans. You don't have to be a rocket scientist to talk on the radio. Beginning Thursday, anyone can address mayhem in far places,assassins with animal names, gangs of them hurting us. Trouble is, life isn't worth more than breath in a troubled chest, the rattle, the rictus without cloud, a check mark of dark against sunset but not quite night. Darling, where your freckles meet your empty eyesockets, sparklets erupt. Nothing language about it. You should haveheard that knock-down chicklet rock out her grief. Honey, no mom can soothe her sore throat: ululation and a life so wracked a bamboo thicket looks like a Serta Sleeper. God! Whatever mountain you've taken up, come read us a story.We need to sleep when our paint brushes wear down to nubs, our reds and yellows evaporate on the pale margins or drip past the wash. We burst from your forehead obediently primed, pumped up to meet. Merging is what we do best after all, our boundaries so blurred what's her worry is our worry: a good job is what we've done, heads rolling off our shoulders into the mass grave,our torsos blurringas they tumble. Hey, you there.You listening? 44 ...

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