TriQuarterly, September 22nd, 2002
Idolatry My Baal, shimmering Apollo, junkyard Buonaroti, funkadelic malocchio, voice shouting from the radio, talking about love, about heartbreak, about doing everything you can till you cain't do no more. They you float by in a Coupe de Ville, hair conked, wearing the mink stole of delicious indifference, reciting the odes of Mr. John Keats like you were his best friend. I was minding my own business, being good as a girl could be when every inch of skin aches for the sky. Where is my wide sky, now all I see is you? Where is my ocean, you hex on thought, golden calf in the living room of amb...
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