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I am a twisted vinyl’s warped
resonance,
a devoted outlier, eternally
unapologetic,
melancholic, and speechless with little
interest
in this downtown rooftop bar
overcrowded with
poetic-faced drunks, and their blurred
semantics.
You will never really understand me
because I don’t
know how to explain it, as we’re
ascending
in the lift, as your finger’s falling down
the bell-curve of my back. I whispered
to myself, never mind.

The hotel corridors are vertebrae in a
spinal
composition where your fingers are the
elevators
and I am an edifice, of many floors,
rooms,
and hallways but never mind: we will
not be this
way ever again as we were never
before,
impermanent like each storey’s
passionate attention
to the elevator doors and I don’t know
why
you’re still listening but finally it’s floor
forty six
where a staircase takes us to confront
this fucked up hollow city. Of the
avenues
and the deaf buildings they save,
the in-betweens where I walk everyday:
a phantom-face, bones bleached white
forever wandering.

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