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At La Patria

a lad in her late thirties waits for her turn

and a couple ceaselessly counts how much homes they can place
their money on. Kids scream at the fist of her greased wrist.

Oiled thumbs pierce through the divorced lad's legs. Alcohol
drops flow about her joint's flesh. A pancreas is dead and touched

as pain teaches men how to un-smoke cigar by exhaling fresh
moist air out their nostrils whose hair connects at the pinch

of this second of the seven series of money-making masseurs

the upcoming fall and the last drop from the emptying oil bottle.

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