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9th street spin

Come back, my Sunday morning. I woke up drunk and walking past the record stores and antiques shops. I stare into the palms of my hands shining in the rise of light. I crawl between loose fence posts and vomit into an empty swimming pool. I climb to the top of a deserted parking garage and masturbate in the occasional breath of stale wind. I can see the freeway from here. Remember when I was young enough to think it went somewhere. Stand on the shoulder of the freeway and lock my fingers around links of the chainlink fence. Someone sprayed something on the wall. I read directions. The arrows point to my ill-lighted apartment. You can hear my breath through the wall. I listen for footsteps in the smokey hallway. Teenage girls come in from the sun to urinate beneath the stairs. I hold my yellowed Ballard novels and dream of sleepwalking to the airfield. My grandfather's ghost is still fishing in the river. And all the family photographs have disrrayed themselves.

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