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3 i ♥ Poetry but poets are assholes. Once I was lost in a cornfield. Not metaphorically. In Pennsylvania. I was four feet tall, the corn, six. A hundred feet in I lost all direction. The land was flat. No mountains to gauge, no grade to track, no box on which to climb. Featureless white sky above. So I ran. The dry corn cut me. After minutes still nothing but corn. More minutes the other way, corn still. And another direction and another. Panic: all the stalks were rows of teeth in the flat open face of a mountainous worm. Not metaphorically; paul text i-84 -3.indd 3 7/20/10 3:17 PM 4 that is what I thought. I screamed and wept and ran through the vaporous bile belching from the monster worm’s ready gut and suddenly found the road. Quiet gravel, two miles from my father’s boring house. So I walked back. Where’s the syntax of the ridiculous fat child? The nostalgic redemption of the nightmare made mist? There’s none. Fear, then shame for feeling fear. Stupid. The words aren’t new at all. Nor are their synonyms better. paul text i-84 -3.indd 4 7/20/10 3:17 PM ...

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