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BRIAN KIM STEPHANS For My Olivetti

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Why a machine without memory? an extension of man? made of pulled teeth, retired hobbyists, parts of a discarded oil tank, katydid wings, surplus lancets, and the controversy over foie gras? Only a way to begin, my friend—nails in the sandbox—play “uncluttered with the commonness of speed” (how’s that for poetics haiku manifesto?)—William Morris mending coils in a pair of ripped, button-fly jeans.


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