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The Radio

The radio doesn't listen to you-

but you listen to it. The world
talks to you through internal

machinery. Nirvana screams at you
about teen spirit, and Etta James

wants to make love to you. But you can't
scream back. You can't caress.

Heartbreak spreads inside your soul, like
mustard gas. Your soul chokes. But enough

of this depression. The radio is beautiful-
smooth and black. It sits on your nightstand,

close to your sleeping body. The internal
machinery works like an computer-chip heart.

The voices titillate like acceptable porn.

You still listen,
for any special report it might broadcast.

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