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feedback concentration loop, no antenna to heaven

Say goodbye to mailcarts and empty office towers. Say goodnight to the lights blinking off, one by one; they remind me of a dying heart. Say "good enough" to the creature I'm becoming. Switch the dashboard radio to east-bay and follow the headlights beneath the overpass. Don't go too far east--the hometown lawns are darkening. Beware of gunfire that smells like saltwater. The fish don't miss me, do they? I miss the tinfoil sundown. Hot coffee in the fog. Sitting in the attic flat and listening to KUSF. Wondering when the next message from Sarah (who is freshly married now and years from me in memory) would arrive. Yes, drinking is my preferred vehicle of transportation. I could take a knife and let some air out of these fatassmutherfuckin tourists. I want to redevelop my three square feet of personal space. The city is misting like hell tonight. Sit in the middle of the liquor store floor and palm my eyes. I miss someone I could know.

I entered an abandoned K-Mart. I asked a ghost where I could find "the shotgun section". There was a cafeteria instead, where they serve up ill-cooked memories and big cups of digestive juice. Hold my head and listen to it hum like bad lighting. The molded plastic chairs. I ask a mannequin if he/she has seen my father's hand or if he/she can recall a familiar phone number for me to call. Please don't send me to the parking lot tonight. I'm terrified of all those white lines glowing in a space that shouldn't exist. Listen to trucker voices on the radio talking about churches without lights falling down and I was walking for miles along McHenry Avenue trying to look at the plate glass windows without seeing my reflection because that's the worst part--the unexpected realization that I've become something I still can't visualize in my head. Please don't tell my shadow. Good luck with your cartography skills, motherfucker. Loneliness and depression are ever-shifting landscapes. The freight train tonight runs down the lucky ones who don't understand the concept of tracks. Your family is dead. Pick a needle or a bottle and sit on this tablet at the edge of morning. Moonlight feels a little damp. This head is full of sound collage. Jack off and cry, trying for a double-release. I'm awarded a gold medal in the catharsis competition. Witnesses described an old woman, nicely dressed, who ate alone in the Nordstroms cafe every day until one day she broke down and cried for many long minutes over her tray of chicken noodle soup, saltine crackers, and a bottle of apple juice. Witnesses said they didn't know why she broke down and cried, but I'd say, "Yes, you do. Yes, you do." And I'm still sitting alone in diner section of the K-Mart and the mannequins are guarding the invisible shotgun section and telling me, Harold why don't you go sit in the light it's light outside you havent sat in the light for so many years. So I walk outside and the sun still remembers me and I sit on a bus bench on the overpass and try to think of what's going to happen to me in an hour from now or three hours or three minutes from now and the sun keeps rising and try to regain enough breath to cry for a a while then stand and walk and walk down old 132. West I guess or maybe east. Just going somewhere, past the abandoned churchs, the mexican grocery stores and the thrift stores with yellowed newsprint taped to the windowpanes. The air is quiet becaus the birds are all dead or just gone. And I walk and walk through the rising morning of dusty light.

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