a poetry jukebox and I’m psychic

Journeying the child is with me. There are preparations to make. Another scene.I go to a gym behind my house through green gates, taking a bicycle with me past the lifting railroad bar, with assurance of special access. Up the cheap carpeted steps are machines for learning how to deal with flying mach 5 speed planes. There are old institutionalized warmonger types in there laughing. It seems less athletic and more like an old boys club. I go down the stairs. There are a few comfortable stuffed eclectic cafe-furniture chairs centered on a plastic vinyl- fronted computer with a screen the size and shape of a juke box. It is displaying the works of writers. I choose a female poet’s work to read. Its pleasurable to touch the screen. I begin to read it and a conversation interrupts me. A man was talking nearby about children. His wife appears with dark curled hair and big anxious eyes. I feel conscious of my wedding ring on my hand which rests on my propped up knee. Now I am in an art studio with pressed wood top tech-ed tables.  A woman unfolds brown paper with white charcoal sketches.  I commented on making the art from the insects perspective. I continued, explaining very clearly, “because I am psychic…”&~~

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