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--- D O N A L D   I L L I C H

Nothing I say has any weight, one of those particles theyíve invented, something that has to be there for life to work, but hasnít been seen yet. My girlfriends werenít scientists so they couldnít hook up high powered microscopes to scan my mouth for signs of sense and intelligibility. I did try to sign them up for classes, six hours credit for breaking apart my sentences, finding a structure for a void, love inside the wind. They slept late each school day, asked me to bring them the notes. Fed up, I threw away their books, diagrams of my vocal chords, the echo chambers in my throat they never looked at once. Although I page through scientific personals, not one of them is interested in my field of study. Maybe Iím a dead science, the astrology of the 21st century. I speak in constellations, bears killing hunters, a virgin lifting a dipper to her mouth, afraid the first drink might be poison. Lift your head to the sky: see, now Iím invisible.

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