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        Tar pits -- paving a cement again, it seemed like not that long ago when it was last done. Reasons. Precocious card-cardboard. Cue lights snuck in as always. Guarded noises shut off to the world, bed of the Reine. Sea ports far away had no idea of the beauty to be found there. One would. And that was the one I had seen.



Magazine advertisements glossed real shiny, pretty, a carport, journey port, missing port, cheese port. Purple adobes, hutted with care, brimming with eaves spouts I called drippers. The plants were plastic. Always plastic. Nothing real, alive, was allowed to grow, entering the door. The plastic ferns wer eput in hot sudsy water, washed, and hung in the bathroom to dry, then put back in the pots for another year. I hate those flowers. All they stood for. I hate them. I hate them so bad.


        A gas leak was apparent when no gass was smelled. The turmoil in getting a serviceman to come after three false visits that morning; God, make it go away. The blowups crap in the heat, in my warmth. Get rid of the mess. Fuck it.


        Thin wisps of matter skip from place to place almost too quickly for my eyes to see. In the corner of my eyes I see them move. Shy little things. I can't identify them. They are little spider-like dancers. Perhaps fairies agian. They dance then disappear.


        Outlines of matter, they don't want to be seen, but I do. Only for a second. Especially when I turn my head. Or when I blink. I see them appear then disappear. Something in the air. Or in the carpet. White shadows that move, then disappear. I wonder if somebody's trying to tell me something.


        I see them move in the corner of my eye, but when I turn to look, they stop moving. It is the same for everything in the room. 


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