I have nothing but duct-taped syntax to offer them--noise of jury-rigged verse, of entire days burnedby the focus of a foreman's glare, the labored breathof an exhausted ride homewhile she sings in a tiara and capeto tuxedoed men and bespangled women.Yet the world sounds most honest to mewhen its timing chain is slightly off.How it revs, how it almost sputters outon any given evening after a long day of work.
-B.J. Ward
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