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Sunday, September 14, 2003

David Greenberger at the Scottish Rite 

An acquaintance is back in town; her skin clings to strong neck muscles.
A shout from a far-off row; Greenberg needs to speak up.
A system circulates behind the wings; we hear more Hawaiian music.
Driftwood distorts our view; the band arrives.
Flow is interrupted; applause between every story.
High-class clothes; we must be near PICA.
I like Two Strokes; I know that something terrible is happening.
My eyes strain to hear; do I know the marimba player?
My neighbor complains about loss; $1.50 ticket surcharge.
My neighbor snaps his nails; will he stop?
Someone gets out of a car; he is a well-known critic.
The musicians make polite gestures; a moment made for NPR.
The musicians make polite gestures; I yawn.
The musician’s trumpet is mute; I can’t speak.
They play; sounds like Kurt Weill.
Tomorrow I’ll ask for poison; this is no life.
We walk past old photos of white men; tradition spans the hallway.

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