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Can You Hear the Cannonball Show

Hip environmentalist drowns in a toilet of email. No. He struggles to reach the rocks, the border, the floating buoy. Hold me and save me in the raft. Drafting the last draft of laughable prose, standing next to a three-legged horse, the bets are off. Swing. Step. Jump. Fuck man, swim! Fences surround her voracious land. Halos are artificial bags of peaches for the weary traveller. Can you hear the cannonball show? Hut, hut hike away a feeble protest, down with the sheets on your head, and bullhorns, and rubber bullets. Two steps from the fence, “Hey, your dried river is a bridge to a soliptic underground.” Digging the mines, pushing to the sides- black, moist dirt. A worm on an eyeball paying rent. A house guest in my pants. A shield pipe built by the gas company. Pipes in four, six, and nine rows, count them, feel the copper.