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The Best Seller

A hawk with a fork
stuck in its back lands
on the broken futon I pulled
to the curb for big-item trash day.
I’m writing a real inspired
piece of fiction on an old
IBM word processor in the office
I’ve made above the garage,
the diegesis of my jewel caper
being screamed through a bullhorn
that’s connected to a wall of amps
that’s wired to news vans
graced and leaning with satellites,
drunk voltage humming its gibberish
through extension cords
to the hairy ends of bed-head
matted and jutting from the scalps
of cereal-eating and decent folks
sitting on the couches of America,
riveted and watching on morning TV.
“I need to tell you something, Stella,”
my protagonist says to a gorgeous
ethnic-type woman wearing
a black Lycra suit who, obviously,
is more than just his assistant
while he puts a fist-sized diamond
into a satchel draped
haphazardly over a shoulder. 
“Don’t say another word,” she says,
looking down to the traffic
48 floors below. “I’m able
to love you beautifully and dismally
in the same car trip,” she says,
knotting an Italian hitch onto her
repelling gear without even looking.
Posted 05/25/12
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