(1) "A Late Reckoning"
Dense midnight-evening chimney smoke ascends below soft fallen rain of a lead-pencil sky. Gray cigar stenciled clouds darken a pale omniscient horizon; while off in the remote distance a freight train decibel flickers to transparent disposal. A late-county block; one frail and silent perimeter. Neighborhood primates slept through soft quaint intervals of dead-bred retrieval. Amid late slumbering corridors; dull vulnerable minutes breed within a living room grandfather-clock's residential summoning. Awaken to an ungodly presence; pensive and disillusioned since childbirth. Silhouetted shadows scatter along grim-faded carpeting;
( yield to network error responses amid prototypical communication breakdown routines).
(2) "My nerves are wrought and ache in a subtle season"
I put on a cryptic morning face when the sky is asleep. Coffee never fills my lethargic void. My stomach experiences unnerving cycles of thwarted mechanics. Thoughts dwindle aimlessly beyond reasonable conception. An immortal clay-air recoils at the back of my soiled neck-hair. I mercilessly capitulate decades amid backyard household maintenance-chore abandonment. Suburban wind-chimes shrill: annoyingly penetrating, frost blood-bitten fingernails claw at an old forgotten aura of lost inclusive nostalgia; dated and useless. I curse my subdued imagination.
(3) "Dead And Selfless/ or "A Frail Deliberation"
Women of light-maroon blouses and slave-driven under-garment apparel; temperamental at best in silver sun-wedding material and scarlet entrancement. Boredom along these illustrious roadsides is gorgeously inevitable . A game of uninspired croquet. Flourishing in remedial nothingness; dry-martinis in complacent noon-time banquet halls. Graciously nibbling into Italian olive livelihoods: not enticing enough to entertain thoughts of scurvy or malnutrition.
solidity
I occasionally peer through open afternoon bay-windows. The harbor is drearily colored below the darkened lull of a beckoning storm. Anticipatory skyline wreckage. My narrow birdlike-head yields to the torrent lifestyle of a man in the midst of subdued self-inflicted torture. I spend my incomprehensibly demoralizing time here at a private beach residence that lies on an exclusive eastern peninsula. I just sit here, recklessly indulging: playing solitaire by the morning-window moonlight
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Saturday, September 22, 2012
"Requiem for an unimportant b-actress"
Robust city apartment studio of young flaunted Italian actress; paper-doll windowsill in rustic portrayal. Phoenix-red sun-beam fragments spread out against a scenic livelihood photograph: pensive shades drawn in morbid afternoon translucency. Middle-aged mother in hopeless coma downtown and: what is your favorite dog?
Tuesday cinema village uptown; cement sidewalk heels patter along concrete avenues. Wallflower abandonment; virginal landscapes unravel before me. A crimson shadowed evening lulls momentarily in a town's commercial epicenter. Towering movie billboard advertisement: I knew her before the tragic climax; was she really that lonely? : she did it to herself through toxic neighborhood upheavals.
Shakespeare In the Park foreshadowed a complacent noontime retrieval. Waiting tables: a frail anecdote to abrupt personal aftermaths. She created a deadlier sin than the first seven combined. Nocturnal bangs fluttered before a tall shapely mirror with brass rimming. Everything was it's own imitation in the end: Whatever fat-free yogurt spoons had to offer amid Broadway show-theme intervals. Her super-fans inquired about an occasional spectacle usage: did she really need reading glasses?: no- she wore contacts amid a short-lived prime,
On a pink cloud; wondrously strung out against black sofa cushioning . Everything was fluffy and silver upon decadent white loveseats in the beginning. "Warhol was great, did you know her?"- she'd ask me between rapacious gasps of drunken lasciviousness. Her neurotic episodes increased inevitably toward the epic finale. I do recall she wore a velvet garter-belt meticulously in a semi well known love scene.
A friend's second-story apartment; this routine setting marked the fatal ending to the insignificant lifestyle of an unimportant b-actress,
Monday, September 17, 2012
Flesh-wound Manuscripts (vol 1)
Desktop pens journal below bled-yellow bulbs of a den's residential perimeter. A domesticated refrigerator breathes in the dull faded background. We all have morbid tendencies: even her among two narrow wrists. Window curtains pulled to the dingy corner of a dusty apartment bedroom. Dark secrets die within sunlit exposure of a dreary winter afternoon. January feathers dwindle aimlessly between withered boughs of a deserted tree; aligning frost-bitten sill imagery. Myriad flocks fled south to scenic enhancement. Seasonal migrants of suicidal ancestry.
Schoolhouse teachings: I tried to tell her before the Fall; pride just gets in the way. A bloody needle in abundant hay burials. Beaten and bruised on farmland equators; passionless heat got in the way of flesh-wound manuscripts:
Flesh Wound Manuscript vol 1)
In 2,000 years we piled on meaningless centuries of pointless ideas and desires.
It is now time to retire below the fallen rain
of vain attempts at sorrow. I loved her once: a soft ocean-tide coming in from the vast Pacific.
Evening descended a blue-green wrath of sea-crest foam .
Sand-dunes peaked and assembled footprints molding shadows of a dying December.
A frail feted breath followed her echoing voice outward: from the autumnal earth; and into
lost forbidden heavens of heaviness: a new grief awakened many stale quaint mornings
desire retired.
From new eyes of a foreign face; amid casual neighborhood walkways
across windswept city streets she hurries to meet no one. Towering skyscrapers that refract heat at a day's transgression. I yield to changing traffic lights; then assume depression.
Dusk carried nightingales that rest below clouded skylines; along silver trees: I could not see them; but only heard a distant cry from night-branches: I knew it was too late. The death of song, the bottomless serenade. A panic shrouds my diseased soul: my heart assumes position.
For I knew the soul that mirrored mine.
I saw the eyes that peer and pry. (crying out to thee)
I've felt the arms that know all strength.
I've tasted tongues bittersweet
(that speak no more to me)
Schoolhouse teachings: I tried to tell her before the Fall; pride just gets in the way. A bloody needle in abundant hay burials. Beaten and bruised on farmland equators; passionless heat got in the way of flesh-wound manuscripts:
Flesh Wound Manuscript vol 1)
In 2,000 years we piled on meaningless centuries of pointless ideas and desires.
It is now time to retire below the fallen rain
of vain attempts at sorrow. I loved her once: a soft ocean-tide coming in from the vast Pacific.
Evening descended a blue-green wrath of sea-crest foam .
Sand-dunes peaked and assembled footprints molding shadows of a dying December.
A frail feted breath followed her echoing voice outward: from the autumnal earth; and into
lost forbidden heavens of heaviness: a new grief awakened many stale quaint mornings
desire retired.
From new eyes of a foreign face; amid casual neighborhood walkways
across windswept city streets she hurries to meet no one. Towering skyscrapers that refract heat at a day's transgression. I yield to changing traffic lights; then assume depression.
Dusk carried nightingales that rest below clouded skylines; along silver trees: I could not see them; but only heard a distant cry from night-branches: I knew it was too late. The death of song, the bottomless serenade. A panic shrouds my diseased soul: my heart assumes position.
For I knew the soul that mirrored mine.
I saw the eyes that peer and pry. (crying out to thee)
I've felt the arms that know all strength.
I've tasted tongues bittersweet
(that speak no more to me)
Saturday, September 15, 2012
"Recollecting April"
Her conditioned hair is raven-black and falls all-down her slender shoulders: in subtle winds; her pleasant portrait is fresh to me, brisk and fashioned: resembling daytime's seasonal imagery. A decrepit falling; dry crumbling leaves of oak trees and crescent maple boughs; sullenly fading: turning amid late-Autumn. A good feminine infrastructure can go a long way these days; while semi-consciously and gradually: I search for lost promises and unfulfilled desires. I'm well acquainted with her and know where she lives; in this quaint and deserted outskirt county. She resides on the main-drag across from a chain dollar-store; on the third floor of an old apartment building above a used-book store.
I delivered a vegetarian pizza to her place once. Her third-story flat has beaded canopy windows that look out onto the slumbering neighborhood street. A lavender aromatic incense aura spreads out among her building's hallway. She wears too much eye-liner; with pale chiseled cheekbones articulated by the omniscient Greek gods themselves. She owns a different pair of girly shoes for everyday of the passing week; her bedroom walk-in closet overflows with velvet shoe-boxes and old assorted handbags. I sometimes see her on the way to a Zumba class amid late Wednesday afternoon. The workout she attends takes place in an old nineteenth century Methodist church that I frequent NA meetings in. Concrete deity and perverse demi-gods pervade old manufactured stained-glass window cathedrals. A dingy musk lingers on the upstairs landing beside a pillared restroom corridor. I can hear routine exercise music bumping while approaching the men's laboratory.
Dusk descends languidly upon residential sidewalk perimeters. Casually strolling back to my recovery house upon nocturnal village walkways, below silver silhouetted trees: I imagine her comfortably curled up on a beige queen-mattress reading Proust. A long list of abandoned lovers fill her illustrious resume. She loves robust Starbucks drive-thrus that rest off the route 309 interstate. Occasionally around dinnertime; as warm sunlight dwindles from idle gray clouds of a tangerine-yellow horizon; I catch her walking a cute domesticated short-haired chihuahua named Freda.
Tender are the personal years we spared for each other; in selfless intervals we waltzed to queer Celtic hymns. Amid full continental dance halls we stepped on each others toes; and out of the music's rhythm: How I wish I knew who you were these days.
I delivered a vegetarian pizza to her place once. Her third-story flat has beaded canopy windows that look out onto the slumbering neighborhood street. A lavender aromatic incense aura spreads out among her building's hallway. She wears too much eye-liner; with pale chiseled cheekbones articulated by the omniscient Greek gods themselves. She owns a different pair of girly shoes for everyday of the passing week; her bedroom walk-in closet overflows with velvet shoe-boxes and old assorted handbags. I sometimes see her on the way to a Zumba class amid late Wednesday afternoon. The workout she attends takes place in an old nineteenth century Methodist church that I frequent NA meetings in. Concrete deity and perverse demi-gods pervade old manufactured stained-glass window cathedrals. A dingy musk lingers on the upstairs landing beside a pillared restroom corridor. I can hear routine exercise music bumping while approaching the men's laboratory.
Dusk descends languidly upon residential sidewalk perimeters. Casually strolling back to my recovery house upon nocturnal village walkways, below silver silhouetted trees: I imagine her comfortably curled up on a beige queen-mattress reading Proust. A long list of abandoned lovers fill her illustrious resume. She loves robust Starbucks drive-thrus that rest off the route 309 interstate. Occasionally around dinnertime; as warm sunlight dwindles from idle gray clouds of a tangerine-yellow horizon; I catch her walking a cute domesticated short-haired chihuahua named Freda.
Tender are the personal years we spared for each other; in selfless intervals we waltzed to queer Celtic hymns. Amid full continental dance halls we stepped on each others toes; and out of the music's rhythm: How I wish I knew who you were these days.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
"Recalling a broken series of unremarkable events."
I managed to set one semi-conscious foot in front of the other for quite a period of time; finding myself abruptly degraded in a too familiar setting; four walled institutional boundaries. These patients stories are boring; and I do not care for them one bit. Everyone wrapped up in their own personal tragedy of drug abuse, jail and desperation. I don't even like the staff or the so-called therapists.
People tend to run away from their own problems together. Mother's cabinet aroma; recalling fondly a fine wood-scented varnish. My friend: a cutter who romanticised past-gone relationships, I love her to death, most of the time she wishes she was. I met her upon rehab-playing fields; even looked her up on the outside. Phoned her from a late-afternoon rural intersection. A fluorescent orange glow descended down upon the slumbering residential streets. Garbage alley trash still had that firm distinct putrid odor of the populated city (forty miles or so north of it though). Called my friend at home on a drunken Tuesday; going through old high-school love scribblings: some received, some never sent. We agreed to meet at a suburban pizzeria right off route 309 at 6p.m., the strip-mall included a Rite-Aid pharmacy that came in handy prior to our engagement.
The pharmacist on this particular day was a purebred home-schooled middle-aged Asian American male with genuine mannerisms and restraint hostility in his narrow eyes. He warned me thoroughly about the third refill of a three-month old Xanax script. He said that my dosage was the maximum legally allowed, I said I already know this and don't care. He then said I would need a new prescription If I needed more Xanax in the future. I said I already know this and don't care.
Late-morning, lost and confused. What hospital is this? Why? and how bizarre? I set myself up for failure again. There are no underlying themes or issues to my madness, nor any past trauma I can hold accountable. Just further additions to my chaotic self proclaimed memoirs. She was the type of girl that I would date If I had courage. She being wild-eyed, promiscuous, Italian-looking, dark featured-she pierced her clitoris once and showed me in the local Starbucks bathroom, I felt cool and involved; like I belonged or fit-in. I was speeding pretty heavily on government issued amphetamines at the time though. For a couple years we'd meet at the corner barroom, she'd sell me pills; or we'd swap one thing for another-never sex. Although I do recall her adamantly telling me about how she used to be a successful escort in Manhattan; and how she was happy then and missed the lifestyle.
During this time I resided in a one-room efficiency on 8th and Valley Forge just a few blocks east from the Main St. 7-11. The police only grew somewhat aware of our operation towards the end of our partnership; by this time it was too late for them to proceed any further investigation. Winter crept in early that wind-swept year; the yard on the prison outskirts of Montgomeryville PA: The medical ward, boredom has a natural way of presenting its victim with evil actions. That is why currently, I teach myself that there are not enough hours in a day to go back to my old ways.
People tend to run away from their own problems together. Mother's cabinet aroma; recalling fondly a fine wood-scented varnish. My friend: a cutter who romanticised past-gone relationships, I love her to death, most of the time she wishes she was. I met her upon rehab-playing fields; even looked her up on the outside. Phoned her from a late-afternoon rural intersection. A fluorescent orange glow descended down upon the slumbering residential streets. Garbage alley trash still had that firm distinct putrid odor of the populated city (forty miles or so north of it though). Called my friend at home on a drunken Tuesday; going through old high-school love scribblings: some received, some never sent. We agreed to meet at a suburban pizzeria right off route 309 at 6p.m., the strip-mall included a Rite-Aid pharmacy that came in handy prior to our engagement.
The pharmacist on this particular day was a purebred home-schooled middle-aged Asian American male with genuine mannerisms and restraint hostility in his narrow eyes. He warned me thoroughly about the third refill of a three-month old Xanax script. He said that my dosage was the maximum legally allowed, I said I already know this and don't care. He then said I would need a new prescription If I needed more Xanax in the future. I said I already know this and don't care.
Late-morning, lost and confused. What hospital is this? Why? and how bizarre? I set myself up for failure again. There are no underlying themes or issues to my madness, nor any past trauma I can hold accountable. Just further additions to my chaotic self proclaimed memoirs. She was the type of girl that I would date If I had courage. She being wild-eyed, promiscuous, Italian-looking, dark featured-she pierced her clitoris once and showed me in the local Starbucks bathroom, I felt cool and involved; like I belonged or fit-in. I was speeding pretty heavily on government issued amphetamines at the time though. For a couple years we'd meet at the corner barroom, she'd sell me pills; or we'd swap one thing for another-never sex. Although I do recall her adamantly telling me about how she used to be a successful escort in Manhattan; and how she was happy then and missed the lifestyle.
During this time I resided in a one-room efficiency on 8th and Valley Forge just a few blocks east from the Main St. 7-11. The police only grew somewhat aware of our operation towards the end of our partnership; by this time it was too late for them to proceed any further investigation. Winter crept in early that wind-swept year; the yard on the prison outskirts of Montgomeryville PA: The medical ward, boredom has a natural way of presenting its victim with evil actions. That is why currently, I teach myself that there are not enough hours in a day to go back to my old ways.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
"Coming To"
On the midday quays of the urban east-side approaching broken evening. Luminous city afternoon light-beams pervade odorous refuge, amid stale prior yesterday, with it's unfortunate endeavors: all along the same four-story apartment balcony. A beige sunflower vase in bloom, rests upon a pale dusted sill. April was cruel with it's paper machete overtones, July presented us dried flowerbeds emptily, with unfulfilled promises, and brimming living room shelve-surfaces. Audio and out-of-tune, I walk you down these dimly-lit residential hallways. Insects of the north breed beneath pillared building wall entrances. Twentieth century portraits align the landlords poorly-lit kept office, darkened in dingy drapery. A miniscule five day grace period: this is all I have to work with of late. Mad drunken outbursts over custody children, dully painted upon a somber and melancholy canvas.
Into the center homelands now, a fortunate son who's just been deputized, somewhere along the vast outstretched flat-lands of Missouri's cornfield axis. Where day and night break together, the milkman and postman: blue collared entrepreneurs, who slay the past and modern housewife; all tuned up on sex and Valium. An expired state I.D., let us make our way to the first highway entrance south: A 24-hour truck stop diner, weak coffee and stale pastries. Watery eggs over and over again, easy, like the liquid that ran down mothers panties back in her prime period. I elude to the current recklessness one possesses while in this delusional grip, the verge of desperation or humiliation. An overwhelming agony that wears the interstate dweller down to the bruised and diseased marrow. One wrong turn off of death's narrow roadway cliff, they'd say it was all an accident. The hungry salt-eyed vultures know the taste of blood in it's raw crescent futility. The years of silken sweat and unrewarded effort. One's discreet ethnicity of no matter, we all taste the same: delicately fresh blood-red sinews tear off the vulnerable tenuous limb-bone.
Winding Down: A gentle conclusion
I initiate a friendly game of badminton with the neighborhood boys after supper. Early September hours dwindle wearily to resignation. The local delicatessen's window lights flicker through placid evening. Hungry police officers strive to make their anticipated quota off poor fatigued traffic-ticket violators.A soft drizzle pounces steadily off soft plastic awnings that suffice for rooftop drainage. These are the times in the day that I yield heavy caution to. The unmerciful gods have us in their grip. One Ice age away from a deadly violent unforgivable shake of Yahtzee dice.
Into the center homelands now, a fortunate son who's just been deputized, somewhere along the vast outstretched flat-lands of Missouri's cornfield axis. Where day and night break together, the milkman and postman: blue collared entrepreneurs, who slay the past and modern housewife; all tuned up on sex and Valium. An expired state I.D., let us make our way to the first highway entrance south: A 24-hour truck stop diner, weak coffee and stale pastries. Watery eggs over and over again, easy, like the liquid that ran down mothers panties back in her prime period. I elude to the current recklessness one possesses while in this delusional grip, the verge of desperation or humiliation. An overwhelming agony that wears the interstate dweller down to the bruised and diseased marrow. One wrong turn off of death's narrow roadway cliff, they'd say it was all an accident. The hungry salt-eyed vultures know the taste of blood in it's raw crescent futility. The years of silken sweat and unrewarded effort. One's discreet ethnicity of no matter, we all taste the same: delicately fresh blood-red sinews tear off the vulnerable tenuous limb-bone.
Winding Down: A gentle conclusion
I initiate a friendly game of badminton with the neighborhood boys after supper. Early September hours dwindle wearily to resignation. The local delicatessen's window lights flicker through placid evening. Hungry police officers strive to make their anticipated quota off poor fatigued traffic-ticket violators.A soft drizzle pounces steadily off soft plastic awnings that suffice for rooftop drainage. These are the times in the day that I yield heavy caution to. The unmerciful gods have us in their grip. One Ice age away from a deadly violent unforgivable shake of Yahtzee dice.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
" A Domesticated Sequence"
1) recalling a lost gem) Love and laughter surrounded the late grievances of our beloved aftermath. The shutters now drawn in our two-story suburban playpen. Pencil shards and comfortable contraband. Your legs remain two untidy cylinder-like circumferences, while petrified doom envelops the evening foyer. Children of uncomfortable suffrage now that daddy's gone to war. December's frozen lake arena and vast cold morning tundras spread out across homeland recreational surfaces. Diplomatic bright blue ribbons of ancient battlefields, Sunday and smiling. These township streets slumber in pensive delusion. Your soft Velcro head leaves sweat stains upon maroon pillow cushioning. Those letters of mine you currently receive and retrieve from the neighborhood mailbox are blood scribblings. They manifest nightly in my chamber. How you've grown from a promiscuous catholic school peasant into an attractive shallow trophy wench. Scarlett and burgundy, long-nylons of grim realization. Your night-red lipstick lips heave mordantly to narrow eastern wind tunnel canals.
2) introducing Daisy and the comedown king) The El-stop into center city. A vintage promised land. Moonbeams refract steel and metal shadows off filthy sewer drainpipes. Grandmother, the belligerent alcoholic octogenarian, put Grandpa through the ageless wringer two decades ago. He rests six-feet deep beneath placid cemetery rock foundations. Billboard mustangs and month-old laundry heaps in the food-stamp corner of raw-curbed basements corridors. I awake to an afternoon headache and stare into my 82' black and white television. Bottle caps and ashtray ash carpet assorted tabletops. These walls breathe in the night, wriggle in morbid daytime-imagery. I'm seeing a French girl these cumbersome days. She lives in a non-electric flat uptown, and goes by the name of Daisy. We drink cheap Italian table-wine through the crimson night, making sordid love upon soiled bedsheets. Cockroaches and bedbugs infest our livelihood. We swear angrily in momentary intervals of lustful deceit. The hepatitis c syringe, or the 7-11 rock stem, 40z.'s of Silver thunder, I remain the comedown king. Royalty of these sleaze-ridden projects. Daisy's got a couple of motherly thighs that could initiate a cold-war or two. We walk these tenement embalmed blueprints like there were no seasons or holidays or diseases.
On the city transit line down into to Spanish Harlem, we make a pit-stop at Snake's place. He owes me a .45' pistol (that operates). Daisy and I make our way to the apartment building's front stoop. Cigarette-burns and peephole prostitutes inhabit the south-side of Spanish Harlem. Snakes phones me on his minute prepaid cell, says he'll be here in a minute. Daisy and I wait in the wood-rotted vestibule. Unleashed and violently domesticated. The Super is a snot-nosed pimp named Luigi. He runs these high-rise section 8 stomp-flats
3) A night to remember) You took me in to your romantic den of womanhood. Scented oils, candles and well grooming utensils. The hearth of your heart's home. I, a broken man, pungently aromatic, and penniless. You gave me a chance to get myself together, you loved me then. I had nothing, you asked nothing of me. You even trusted me to stay at your apartment while your were at work. Alas! I can't recall the last time someone treated me the way you did!. You showed me how to open a savings account, even put forty dollars in it, (I sat back and watched interest accumulate). I kept the summer fridge stocked with cheap bottled beer that sweated from the glass neck amid noon-time endeavors. Eventually I got my own place on the west-side with a girlfriend of yours (Juanita the Huerta-Rica). I got a part-time apprenticeship with the well established plumber, Gregory "The mortician" Hendricks, he quickly took me under his wing, (tried to get me into his bedroom, I politely declined the offer). I got into crystal meth for a little while but somehow managed to maintain my job and apartment. To this day I can't get that portrait of you in your wheelchair out of my head.
2) introducing Daisy and the comedown king) The El-stop into center city. A vintage promised land. Moonbeams refract steel and metal shadows off filthy sewer drainpipes. Grandmother, the belligerent alcoholic octogenarian, put Grandpa through the ageless wringer two decades ago. He rests six-feet deep beneath placid cemetery rock foundations. Billboard mustangs and month-old laundry heaps in the food-stamp corner of raw-curbed basements corridors. I awake to an afternoon headache and stare into my 82' black and white television. Bottle caps and ashtray ash carpet assorted tabletops. These walls breathe in the night, wriggle in morbid daytime-imagery. I'm seeing a French girl these cumbersome days. She lives in a non-electric flat uptown, and goes by the name of Daisy. We drink cheap Italian table-wine through the crimson night, making sordid love upon soiled bedsheets. Cockroaches and bedbugs infest our livelihood. We swear angrily in momentary intervals of lustful deceit. The hepatitis c syringe, or the 7-11 rock stem, 40z.'s of Silver thunder, I remain the comedown king. Royalty of these sleaze-ridden projects. Daisy's got a couple of motherly thighs that could initiate a cold-war or two. We walk these tenement embalmed blueprints like there were no seasons or holidays or diseases.
On the city transit line down into to Spanish Harlem, we make a pit-stop at Snake's place. He owes me a .45' pistol (that operates). Daisy and I make our way to the apartment building's front stoop. Cigarette-burns and peephole prostitutes inhabit the south-side of Spanish Harlem. Snakes phones me on his minute prepaid cell, says he'll be here in a minute. Daisy and I wait in the wood-rotted vestibule. Unleashed and violently domesticated. The Super is a snot-nosed pimp named Luigi. He runs these high-rise section 8 stomp-flats
3) A night to remember) You took me in to your romantic den of womanhood. Scented oils, candles and well grooming utensils. The hearth of your heart's home. I, a broken man, pungently aromatic, and penniless. You gave me a chance to get myself together, you loved me then. I had nothing, you asked nothing of me. You even trusted me to stay at your apartment while your were at work. Alas! I can't recall the last time someone treated me the way you did!. You showed me how to open a savings account, even put forty dollars in it, (I sat back and watched interest accumulate). I kept the summer fridge stocked with cheap bottled beer that sweated from the glass neck amid noon-time endeavors. Eventually I got my own place on the west-side with a girlfriend of yours (Juanita the Huerta-Rica). I got a part-time apprenticeship with the well established plumber, Gregory "The mortician" Hendricks, he quickly took me under his wing, (tried to get me into his bedroom, I politely declined the offer). I got into crystal meth for a little while but somehow managed to maintain my job and apartment. To this day I can't get that portrait of you in your wheelchair out of my head.
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