The man had a fish in his pants
a fucking fish, I tell you. And
I'll be damned if it wasn't the
most intelligently absurd thing
I've seen. He had a fish in his
pants and he told us our names
were magic. We believed him,
him and his fish, and his chicken
bones and his shoestring fishing
line. For five minutes we believed
that fish and names and pants were
magic, that shoestrings and shouting
and banjos were magic. We believed
that art could stink, and words could
flop, pale and fleshy on a concrete
floor - that our names were so much
more alive than any of these things;
our names were magic for five minutes -
which strangely enough, was just long
enough to forget exactly which name
was our own, and we schooled like
sardines to our chairs.
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