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Gotcha, the young man keeps replying, like a rubber band pinging into my

brain, Gotcha, and so I know I am alone in the world where only the homeless

people are majestically polite, one denizen of a shopping cart calling out to me

“Excuse moi Ma’am, but do you have the time?” as he wheeled his precious

refuse mobile past my lockup on Mars. Everything’s named by what’s not there,

I mumble to myself and you yelp out – put it in a poem! – by which you mean

consign it to a dark corner of the billabong where it will eat its own reptilian

wisdom for eternity. Sorry I didn’t understand your directive to bury myself

in sand and garbage juices while strutting proudly as representative of Lucid

Communication, Inc. And on the train back home there are six German

Hula hoopers and one is excited by a lemonade stand, dude, and maybe even

fried eggs, while the chick drawls at her mate, “You feel me man? It’s just

one of those things. If I wake up, I’ll go. And if I don’t wake up, I won’t be awake.”

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