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Saulus.

On the Road to Memphis
that same shadow appeared to me.

;

I battle other things now.
I don’t battle loneliness, as much as I used to.

-She was never lonely for me.
I think that threw me–
suplexed me,
really knocked the wind out of me.

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She stopped reading me and really that’s what did it.
It was you instead, and whole weeks of memory and expectations were suddenly erased, rewritten; rasped from the membranes of the frontal cortex, just kinda joyfully tossed about like an etch-a-sketch.

Suddenly empty again.

hmm.

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She doesn’t read me now.
Which is important, because this is no longer the voice of whispers in the night,
crumpled little heart shaped notes back and forth across the aisle,
tin can songs through fuzzy red string
from one tree to the next.

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It’s an actual voice to the crowd.

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;

She’s gone now,
but to be fair,
ehhh was she ever really there?

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.Man I really got scrambled up
asdf

Man I really got scrambled up back there.
Man I really lost that work ethic.

Who’s gonna love a guy that can’t even keep up a sentence?

 

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Move to California.

What do I do from here?

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I quit writing for a while because I just didn’t have anything left in me. No love nor god to guide me.

On the love end, well. She was off in some other city, having late night LCD Soundsystem nights into her city, riverwalks and city parks strewn from tip to toe in lights, No curfews, no lack of rights.

She said not to take it personally, that she was leaving the city, not me.

But I am this city.
These streets are my streets,
these potholed veins my blood streams
these bars the future haunts-

my
broken obelisk.

This whole goddamn time* reeks,
you know?

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She was abusive,
though in this warped mind I’d argue
she wouldn’t have been if I didn’t let her be
and maybe she just didn’t want me to let her be
anymore.

There seems to be something rotten in that, huh?

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My sister asked why she was here
i didn’t really have much an answer.

“So that we know what bad looks like,
for when I finally find good?”

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hmmm.

 

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*town.

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Hello Stranger.

I don’t know you, I know of you, but I can not say that I could tell you your own favorite songs from the radio, or your favorite place to be. I don’t know you.

And yet, here I am, day in day out, asking you to know me.
Asking you, bringing myself out here, pleading (essentially)
for you to obsessively consume whatever I put out here,
to hang on to every word and dissect while digesting
pulling out my strands of thought to dance in the limelight of your eyes.

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Isn’t that selfish?
and yet, how do I repay the kindness shown?

Not very well, that much is true.

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She doesn’t want riddles
she want’s the mexican work ethos.

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That ain’t me tho, huh?

nah.

I was the kid that made room in his heart for you.
The dad had the work ethic,
he worked and slaved harder than any of em,
built this house with his own two hands
for me,
grand column pillars and resonant tiles
and white as heaven’s clouds.

And what have I done?
Where are my grand deeds upon this earth?

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When I was a child
my aunt’s spoke to me,
all of them, some of them, one in particular,
the brother’s lover on my father’s side
said this to me:

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“Don’t be a Martinez.”

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