DeLorean Days
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Your voice and what you said to me presses on the air
and the space in my head made specially for pinkness
will feel the details of it always.
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The refrigerator speaks, but can it bleed?
Your neck is elk-like, but your popcorn logic
escapes me:
"Someday, God will give us robots"
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The UN building - more real than the sky
around it - points sometimes to meaning
but not always.
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My car is parked where I can see it. Such
things give me solace like still seeing icebergs
or surprise friends at the mall.
"And we will rid ourselves of turgid reflection"
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approaching_me_like_a_DeLorean">
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