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dust poems of the drunk and forgotten

This red wine is the ghost of all those I miss. Friday night is the night of unanswered and unreturned phone calls. I remember the Central Valley and driving 99 late at night, just to get away from the poems in my apartment. And to return to the poems in my apartment. And walking alone around Modesto late at night. Waiting for something to rise out of me. Something to fall from the dark windows and treetops. Looking for something in the music and books I brought back from Stockton. Trying so hard to escape, unaware that I would attempt to re-enter many years later while stuck in fog and loneliness of my San Francisco apartment.

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