Messengers have come & gone. I stood next to preachers & schoolchildren. The different faces & voices flutter & wave in the wind. If I listen I can hear them...but I don't want to hear them. I don't. I watched my wife slice an apple & put it in a small green bowl & give it to my daughter. The weather finally broke & it was cool outside & we opened all the windows. I still grind my teeth. I still worry & worry & worry...but not like before. The London Motel. Rep's on Blackstone. The guy working on the pool who was really a cop. The lady I met @ the bank & her son. The roof of my elementary school. The graveyard on Belmont. I didn't plan for this. Insurance? Retirement...from what? I never started anything. I never got going. But here I am. Here we are. The apples in the bowl. The monkey shirt & pink skirt. Spinning to music. Joni Mitchell. Werewolves of London. Brighton Rock. The Cure. The Pretenders. The unfathomable, murky & brilliant eighties. Oh...I can go on & on this way. Describing things you will never understand. That are really not that interesting...unless you were there. I am still haunted by The Book Stall Murder. Pulling into The Palms in Madera, Ca. & buying stomped on cocaine in tiny rubber-banded baggies. The luminous arms. The ricochet of Spanish & English. The long drive home. Pressed Rat & Warthog. Deserted Cities of the Heart. 

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