2003

i recall a lot where there can be
no return – everyone’s an American
Idiot; where i am just young, bare in
accepting boyhood. i cling onto Mom
for the remainder of that life, fingers
tight, gripping with the lack of futures.

on page 5: my hands in my Father’s
back pocket, the gravity of a Nokia
and the engorged snake, inching.

am here in another hotter summer.
memory-like liquid crystals. I…

+1. is the roar of a television shutting down.
i recall a lot, wanting to see Green Day
live, and so did i, a mushroomed head.
i went to the barber’s exiting with a bowl tarnished by water.

i went to the barber with vertigo;
i never fell from my Mother’s bosom.
the nokia rings. i stop touching my Dad.

water is short like the snake like the being i stopped

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