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A Foreign Feast

by Greg Baysans

A convention, unending. To mention the loud music ignores that that's quiet. The foods are all strange, and most frightening. Do I go here? There? Nothing familiar. All new. Dig in. I don't want to. I must. What first? No guide. I like. I don't like. Is this even earth? Do we sleep here? Dream? Black high heels, gold farm gloves. It's too hot. I tear them off so I can write.

(c) 2001 by Greg Baysans, 1-24-01