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LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village
Dogtown for Gerrit Duck stands on two by four. Old broken-down speedboat with swastika spray-painted over the bow. Day lilies on parade, pacing the waffle boards of the dock, crack-pot beach towel worn as a fashion accessory, under baseball hat. Salt marsh power line. Lover's toes in the mud of long abandoned swimming pool. Cold fusion. Sometimes I plunder the difference in dirt roads in new england and a rediscovery of the obvious. Jackson confuses popsicle, bicycle and testicle. My snow cone dripping diluted red & blue syrup all over knees. The reader finds page dissolving as he writes. The text becomes unmeshed like delicate fibers of tissue separate in one's hands. Foggy haze over swampland, high electricity and doors slamming elsewhere or else. Green tractor. Last ray of daylight. Marigolds at beverly farms drink dry purple mountains travesty Most get off in in Manchester I'll go two more.