INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Richard Kostelanetz
Fred Wolven
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Copyright (c) 2013
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WICKING CLOTH A woman who was fifty but still quite lithe, transferred from the closed Buick plant in Flint to Orion Assembly. She started as a floater, learning many jobs so she could replace absentees. "Sometimes the inside of my sweatshirt doesn't feel right on my skin so I turn it inside out," she said. And, in fact, her violet sweatshirt was turned inside out, with the tag cut off. So how were those special breathing fibers supposed to carry her gleam of exertion to the material's surface? No matter--in an oil lamp the fuel is drawn up to the flame--not away. ALTAR FLOWERS It is simple to order: a bouquet for the altar in honor of a baptism-- a spray of petite blossoms to suggest baby girls. The best nursery in town is on a neighborhood street, the long hot-houses backing up against back yards. They'll take a fresh Gold MasterCard, never used, and offer you a banana they've forced in one of those dripping quanset huts. These aren't much longer than thumbs, but go ahead--have one from the basket on the counter, then sign the charge slip. The flavor is quite intense, just as the lady said. But please discard the miniature peel responsibly. They have their own key to the church so they can deliver on Saturday night. In the waxy darkness, even the organ pipes will hold their breaths.
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