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i find myself folded, twisted, fingers on my wrist, feeling the steady pulse of 'i am, i am, i am', pen in hand. it's all i can write, page after page of phrase after phrase until it all blurs together. the commas loop and swirl, and the arches of the m's curl like they're kissing. the dots of the i's are missing and to look at it, you'd never know what it used to be.
experimenting with performance poetry.

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Submitted on
September 4, 2010
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