August 3rd 2017


August is like a yearly period. I stop take a breath and remember where everything went from bad to worse. Father I followed in your footsteps and tried to use cellotape to fix up all my mistakes and somehow made a mix tape of all my regrets and I regret to inform you that I found myself so far from the direction we were traveling, as if I were you traveling for the first time.   August is as if Augustus had unsheathed his sword and sliced right through arteries and yearly he releases sacrificial blood from me unto the earth and I walk around not clear of mind end up taking some crazy risks like a mother of no kids, just a mother of all kids, so rejected by all those who are inspected by the infected collected and collated and collaborated and so I stand on a podium and scream about times like they were mine again yet histories belong to books so remind us, as if stories unite us, I feel as I am the one who divides us and have divided myself by zero, no hero looking for my Nikki yet she is nowhere to be found, just a long hug and a few words exchanged like old friends, but old friends are not friends, we’re just just strangers stabbing in the dark.

  Strangers in the night, seems as though you were right, to take us traveling through the alps, alpine water from faucets in streets that flow from lakes up in the clouds where we traveled by train, where my fascination began of tracks and where they lead, carrying packs of jam from youth hostels, you understood my hatred of bunk beds and somehow on a shoe string budget, made a double bed out of fabric found in dustbins and there was gold on every street you just had look in the drain, there was five hundred franks there you just had to open your eyes and you used it to buy oils and make five thousand franks and spent it on another train to Paris where we found the hunchbacks hideout. 

  I’m no longer upset that you’re gone, I just wish I could pick up the phone and ask you what you think of the life I made out of the divine comedy that you left covered in cellophane and silver foil to protect me from the images drawn by Dante of half eaten bodies in the ecstasy and extract from all those art exhibits the reason why I exhibit so many of your habits when as an adult you were no longer living, so how from the grave were you giving me advice? 

  Was it you in that dream when I sat on top of the world and I talked for hours and I know in reality it was the last few minutes before wake, the mistaken identity of reality, I’d rather live in a dream since life over there is less like a fantasy than the feelings I have when I’m walking around here, not knowing exactly what I’m doing, see when I’m driving around with the sandman is Lost Angeles, I know where I’m going and I feel you in the back seat smoking a cigarette and you’re talking about how in the future all buildings will be made of glass and run by Silicon Valley technicians, these predictions informed my future predilections and I wake up to find I haven’t been able to make breakfast so I drink another Red Bull, smoke another cigarette even though I’m late to get to where I’ve been before, see I’m pretty sure my life is circle and I’ll wake up some day to find you left to go walking and had a heart attack the paramedics couldn’t save you and then the twin fall and I’m falling again into an ocean I can never get out of. 

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