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36 idling through rinehart’s Brain Over here, the permalust, depravities on the mattress, And over there, the highest notes of woe. He might be wondering what’s for dinner tonight, Coquille St. Jacque or Kool-Aid and fish sticks. He might be sighing for Paris, those cheroots and arias, A little nap inside the sleeve of afternoon. For all we know, there’s light strangled in every cranny, Gossip and rumination in the lower lobes. For all we know, he’s thinking: My hair may be Backing up, but my mind’s going forward. So many stretch marks and erosions, so many ideas Fizzling in the fault lines like a nimbus of gnats! ...

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