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Texas Water Tastes like Turpentine We live in a bar just off the freeway in a permanent state of nostalgia listening to brokenhearted songs and gunfire from the parking lot. This is the frontier of the postmodernist era. One of us lost his leg in the war but he can’t remember which war. After midnight he can’t remember which leg. We still have private parts, semiprivate at least, but we are surrounded by dangerous dry counties and the abuse of loneliness. There are as many ways of being dead as there are ways of dying. All afternoon we watch the heavy industry of flies on flypaper. Outside is raw distance and the apotheosis of glare. We close at 2 a.m. It’s a long journey from Texas to West Texas. The world as we know it is mostly unknown. 7 ...

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