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Contents Page: October, 2010, vol 6 no 3

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Eduardo N. de valle


At some point I find myself wanting to accept not as much what but that this trainer has been trained to train us.  I’ve been seating in this space, carved out of an oversize toolbox, for too long.  There’s but one laptop-size window, screwed shut and shielded with a rusty junkyard, standard-issue guard-screen.  The chair is hard; my body has knowingly become unconscious to its fascist shape.  I wonder if the rest of the heads and bodies in here...No, I’m alone.  I’m trying to look interested, at the very least, perhaps even comfortable.  There’s an unmistakably citrusy tang in the room. 

No room, give none to the thought of another, I’m saying to myself, just as the crustacean-red face in front of the classroom repeats, ‘We’re all responsible for security,’ pointing to the site plan on the wall, ‘at all times, in and out of the project limit lines,’ his right hand in circular motion around the two pools.

A clandestine glance out the window and I begin to wonder.

dragonfly lights
on a diamond
in the mesh

Why do I feel like the enemy has already won?

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