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Warren Heiti


“Your voice, an eveningin late June, ice losingits edges in a jar of tea.”
Warren Heiti
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“Your self is a cosmetic fiction, a centrifuge.”
Warren Heiti
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“You are not a god, though you are hostileas a god, inhospitable and anonymousas a metropolis, your grey and single-minded industry transforming the shoreinto yourself. Narcissism is notself-love, but a mechanism of survival,your cogs churning amorphous as maggots,pallid as almonds, paper-whites, the highnotes of foam.”
Warren Heiti
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“I stand there at the corner, known by the equinox and knowingnothing, exposed by the alethiclight of those apples,that fearless crocus,the magnolia tree, its chandelierof tears.”
Warren Heiti
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“The iris of your fistconstricts.”
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“Mute, I stumble through the dry, verdigris aqueducts of your eye, thinking this prayer, formic acid, ant spit and sandpaper: blink and I will be expelled, sharpen the edge of the water, subtract me from eternity.”
Warren Heiti
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“The mind is moored to others;the wasps orbit on little tethers of light.”
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“The taste of chalk. The sun lays its copper thumbs on my eyelids. The radio plays the monologue of a dog. What is the formula for tomorrow?”
Warren Heiti
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“The handless clock trying to holdthe hour of death, saltin the last mouthful of water.The windows opaque with silence,silence stagnating in the wineglass.”
Warren Heiti
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“The sky bruised my eyes with rain's weight and my body was a held breath.”
Warren Heiti
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