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HOME 2004-04-03
Francis Joseph Spellman B. 5.4.1889 Whitman, Mass. / D. 12.2.1967 New York City Unknown My agrarian God you smell of grains fermented gummy woods twice-burnt and beeswax chilled and hoarded.
I was hanging on your stoop I was calling you and getting your machine I was wondering if you thought your �No Menus� sign would really work and if you knew your tape was full then why when all at once you pulled up in a cab the back seat was full of your robe-swirl and fly-away effulgence; meaning to get the door for you I stood. The taxi pulled away.
I still carry your picture: an oblique view into the bottom of a teacup where overnight has drawn a sugared bulls-eye and a ring. Consolation Site: One touch of Venus
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