making boxes no romance inheres in this or tape
that sticks you can blast late & unmixed jeff buckley
there’s still only lint to choke on (goes down like reality)
the smell of unopened books mocks any real thingness
+ the sense you’ll never ‘get’ it (you say to yourself
blogs are the only way to orate (you’re no socrates
these are modern days the edit function is crucial (like
ultrasounds & jokes about sex & coarse mailmen &
weather & the gold-tinged leaves people will
write about & you know you’ll read thoughtfully
(against strident intentions pieces evoke ‘place’ while
you need to want nothing, or maybe the relaxing airy
place anyone can think up (no imagine a building of
many chambers come upon some endless night
no-one there but modern-art, a friend & hard-liquor
(we drink & wander & talk sleep is had
soft as love in some peculiar corner shadowed
dark & angled with your soundtrack of choice
the tingles come then stop probably
a 10disc stacker but the mechanics
are invisible (the perfect possession

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