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ISSUE:  Autumn 1995
Doesn’t matter how well you’ve lived, or if you’ve lived at all

There is no realism, only abstraction.

Reduced to its simplicity,
life can be immeasurable,
life can be nothing.

Nature is abstract,
so’s work.
You focus and you see nothing.

I like swatches of color,
shapes. I like violence.

I don’t know what I know.
I’m about to, but I lose it.

Just as well. Defying death is absorbing,
lonely. I hate to be lonely.

I walk inside of myself, get lost,
meet strangers who insist on talking.

I talk too—to know if I have substance.

I don’t. I have torn pants,
sneakers that are worn out.
I use Vitapointe on my hair.

I stroll through the woods,
take photographs of lichen, fungi,
have a close-up of a frog.

I separate likenesses, record them, forget them, avoid mystery because there is so much.

I open the sealed letter, peruse it,
pass it on to others.

The future comes anyway.
It walks through me, around me,

produces children who inhabit it,
grow up, try not to be me.


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