A fine site

Paper Rock Scissors

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Traveling in a wood paneled station wagon,

through small towns in East coast forests

there were paper mills that you could smell

miles away. The chemicals used are pungent.

Our father was a printer in the days that they

printed ink on paper, from trees, you know.

We called Lincoln, stinkin.



Author: biochicklet

Scientist raised by intellectuals on poetry, theater, art, history and music in New York City. Escaped to New Mexico to nature and mysticism. Knowing that the absurdities in this life are what we must laugh at.

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