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Tuesday, April 3, 2018

I was going to call it, "A Brief History of Breast Pumps."

The art of the poem. The art of the american poem, or whatever.  Here's a poem.
I was going to call it, "A Brief History of Breast Pumps."

But here's some room temperature coconut milk instead.
Here's an hour between 4 a.m and 5 a.m. with no sleep then predictable rage

followed by obsessive thoughts about duvets and duvet covers.
Where is our one word for early morning, and what?

Our one word for lover? Here's a draft of three social media posts
for the upcoming forum on how x and y can make a difference.

This poem is a metaphor for trying to have a personality, for trying to be
comfortable, fun and elegant. Or my breasts are.

Something about the prison house of language. Of synecdoche: mama /mammary.
There's cake! A clean desk. The sound of a spoon and a rattle bashed together.

There is the insistence on options. An option so there can be choice.
A pulp-free option with no added sugar.  Rage might be boring. Here's a woman,

almost 40, yelling at radio news, calling her representative,
going to the protest, flossing her teeth, sometimes. Where is the one

word for saying, "I thought those were magnolias and now I don't know
what they are?" She has healthy teeth. The reporter wants to know

if anyone remembers 1968, if anyone is willing to share "personal memories,"
if anyone lives in the post-post riot real estate gem boomtown neighborhood.

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