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ISSUE:  Spring 1999
In my dreams there is always a popular disease,
something everyone really wants,
something you can say you really have
with certainty, a certain land of
last chance strumming and numbing of desire.

In my dreams the pretty girls
need it the most, that transformation
like the tongue marked wake
of a small boat going out
from absolute form to sameness.

In my dreams the mothers never saying
finger yourself through your throat
to reverse the mythology,
the voice not going out,
the seduction not for the other,
are always culpable and disappearing.

Like the boyfriends anonymously
racing some piss against tiny little
lap waves are exhausting themselves on shore.

In my dreams the pretty girls
have so many options, but not enough
fingers to count them.
Uteruses loaded up, intestines heaving,
no food forever, please let there be guns.

The pretty girls foaming and cresting
who never stand a chance,
their sirens not audible,
only singing to friend after friend
come in to the break wall.


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