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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 they’ve invented, something that has to be there for life to work, but hasn’t been seen yet. My girlfriends weren’t scientists so they couldn’t 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 I’m 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 I’m invisible.

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published in association with the |
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