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Robert Strong

Too didactic. I declare it. There is an imperative sense to everything. Everything mentioned in permanence and bookended with untempered there-it-is. Whatever descending anything seems a gratuitous rhythmic addition. A saddling of extra breath. Rhymes addle depression, they make inherently playful, bubble up from perambulators and Mary Poppins-types. It's all about ascension, then-or giving that impression. I'll play. I'll move through space. What is implied here is subjunctive and conditional. That is, you won't hear from me unless something happens: and inside me. Subjective, then, unless I pay total attention: attain a godlike objectivity (and remember to mention it). (Notice, again, the tone of prescription that's crept in.) To counterbalance what's really happening. Tragedy. Someone is dead and my inner milk truck tipped over at it. At the same time, my wife is pregnant by me. Good thing. Growing. Anyone born on this earth out my window would get old wet leaves stuck on him. Or her. Gender uncertain entering-well established by exit. Like life records what sex one is. That's it. Everyone certainly seems curious. I like this idea & scotch & cigars. There is nothing to teach yet, nothing to boss about. I like entering into months of uncertainty based on one person I can't see. Like a good part of me.

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