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Currently seeking a sublet for swollen consciousness, I’ll take Any slick way to decrease the size of my decision space — To be able to hide on a private server in the Galapagos, Horizontal, yet chugging, and sort of spilling, bone-cold virgin Pina Coladas On my sunburnt chest, while one-handed writing steampunk Soliloquies on the back of a waterlogged book — perhaps, With visible heat exiting my head in Times New Roman, And out beyond the dopamin-ed event horizon, I auto-dislocate my spiritual jaw and Open my teeth wide for creative blueberries rolling downstream Off of white-capped domes with browned…

One thing leads to another nothing.

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When he was eleven he tried explaining to his father that they were entering a phase, globally, transnationally, where empire’s and their decadence were beginning to rot and turn green but not the pretty sort of green that we associate with copper structures after oxidization.

Put the hydrocarbons in the green bin first.

Run down Adams Court, turn at the bell tower, ignore shin splints, drive with two low hands on the wheel.

Her squirting a hyperbolic curve of fresh orange juice over face into the mimosas out back.

Resisting the zig-zag leads to blockage, natural dams of twigs…

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Tape skips over scratched portion on disc . . .

“The dreams you mean?”

“Ya, they’re getting quite . . . dense.”

“So they’re nightmarish?”

“Ehh, not sure I’d go that far. More like . . . inexplicably complex, which . . . depending on your outlook . . . , yes, could be nightmarish.”

“Perhaps you can sustain a recall?”

Tape skips again . . .

“Between 7:10–7:45 a.m., I spent three years as a sports agent to Shaquel O’Neal, post-retirement though, when I witnessed Shaquel’s growing frustration with my consultation and accordant and slightly concerning interest in landing…

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I walked further up the boulevard and dipped into a bodega with Tibetan prayer flags draped over the doorway.

Inside, I knocked over a stack of toilet paper, re-stacked the suckers, and then purchased a newspaper and a tallboy of bud. The cashier offered me a brown bag to which I obliged, smiled, pointed to the cctv monitor in the way back of his shop, and meanwhile snatched and pocketed one of the pens he had in a jar for signing receipts.

I cranked east for ten blocks, way past Daisy’s, past the dry patches of skyscrapers, until I hit…

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She thought about those times she sat across from guys who were trying oh so dearly to be genuine, trying to be 1s, as if that weren’t perverse, and her wondering if this is all a relationship is, just a smorgasbord of semi-sincere 2-ness. And then, what happens when the kids come, does that 2-ness grow arms and legs and get multiplied, do you feel more mundane, or is it like a simple addition subtraction problem?

It has gotta be, she thinks, scanning her vernal memories, remembering, vaguely, being two years old and making the momentous transition from babbling throat…

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Mornings were tough because I had too much energy. I needed to drain a bit of gas before I could hit the keyboard and make myself clear. So, I went through my clothing, the ten shirts, and pants combinations, and with a thick old-school sharpie, I started drawing non-numeric faces and various scenes of infinity on drugs. I did thirteen pushups. I called Mary, didn’t get through, but left a voicemail of brown noise. I inspected the walls of my room and kept putting my nose real close to the paint to see if I could smell any chemical funk…

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Under his desk, in between the skeletal support rods that ran both sides, were the soundless velcro patches, two inches wide by a foot long. Only his fishing buddy, Tom, knew how Scott had acquired the highly top secret technology — through a convoluted, borderline psychotic, journey of online research, which after endless back and forth emailing with a private military consultant, resulted in him, Scott, buying 800 strips of military grade soundless velcro patches that were previously sitting idle in some warehouse in Tennessee. Apparently, they’d been designed specifically for Navy SEALS and Spec Ops types under the pretense…

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To the right, past a small plastic lawn table piled into a pyramid, are glycemic candy bars on sale, and I can see the buzzcut teenager at Lane 1, literally lifting the back of his shirt up, revealing Abercrombie boxers, no belt, and proceeding to pick with his pointer finger at what is some strange hybrid of a mole and a scab, almost beckoning some Schrodingerian thinking about the possibility of two states existing simultaneously as the mole-scab. When my receipt finally prints, it comes out even-flow and pours down and folds in on itself until after a few feet…

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Not so much a conspiracy as it was a general trending towards the realm of mystical blanket ideas, the transition to spiritualism took place in carefully worded marketing campaigns, in government subsidized teaching scholarships, tax-payer posts specifically in the categories of ‘Mysticism’ and ‘Psychedelic Buddhism’, and in quietly submitted amendments to the constitution’s stance on separation of state and religion. Coca-cola being one of the early companies to pivot, artfully at that, changing their patent mix from a molasses brown to a less fizzy, clear sort of retroglassed bottle, now labeled as Prana (in Sanskrit). Later, but still early on…

Jack Burt

I Don’t Know— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

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