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Onomatopoeia and its Environs

1

Kinda glad poetry is dead. The New York Times pronounced it. I’d rather speak to the dead in a
dead language, if you know what I mean.


When I say something to Musil now,

                                                    2

                                                            he nods, rather than giving me that befuddled grunt.

                          3

Even now, I’m not sure if he understands, or even listens. Enough said. Dead. dead. Dead.

                                 4

When I got fired from Twitter,
                                                                              5

they didn’t know all the bots I had created.
I felt proud like a heinously ugly man anonymously donating sperm. I loved each day
suspending accounts on a whim, or, best of all, letting the tweet stand but robbing it
of any power to be shared or seen (unbeknownst to the tweeter!)
i can still hear all the writhing screams I bottled in old milkman’s glass

                                                                                                   6

                                                                        I called my office The Dead Letter Office
                                                                        and named my computer Bartleby. I read
                                                                        once about free speech absolutism but got
                                                                        too bored to finish. I thought a public square
                                                                        sounded weird.

                           7

Adagio? Huh? At this point? Imagine a Murakami character cooking pasta like only they can.

                                                                                                                        8

                                                                                                The pusillanimity of boiling
                                                            water

                                                                                                9

                                                                      O, I like the transmigration of souls there, there
                                                                                                 when B shifts melodic minor
                                                            10


Oh, Lalo. Lalo Lalo Lalo.


That time Federico Garcia Lorca snuck ambrosia into your espresso.

                                                                                    Lalo, Lalo!
Mild remembering
                                                            heavy with forget

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