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The Summer of Color Television
Broc Rossell




muscles work by accretion pulling up a sod lawn the oldest job is the sun's I am dreaming of garlic the wind's fingers are ringed with leaves I am incarcerated I have discovered the uses of leather I have no thoughts at night the squirrel's body I left is about gone its belly perforated like a colander I hear music blow by from the southern basin I masturbate in the avocado tree I sunbathe in the reservoir I have a transistor radio and a magazine I am dreaming a menagerie of impossible women I am waiting for the sun to smooth these marks a rose bush in the cold is the angriest word my fingers are starting to curl the wheel is about to pass by the water will be cold the sun bright I will have a new friend he will be me I will ignore him too much I can hear the soundtrack at the moment the dancer's fingertips I don't stand up very much I'm truly wealthy the sun bows my back like a warped plank my eyes see everything like the semi-precious stones at the Yosemite Gift Shop my eyes are black stones and see diaphanously into blackness















































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