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August 21, 2011
I'm the B side, the minor key, the back door, the corner brownie with the burned edge that resists the spatula at first and then sizzles against your teeth. I'm the place setting with the mismatched fork, the banana with the bruise that is otherwise sweet, the rain on the parade you didn't want to attend anyway. I don't want to march to the beat of a different drummer, I want to beat up the drummer and sell the drum for a tambourine I can shimmy and shake like Davy Jones in orange and red and purple striped bellbottom pants.