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I am a warped vinyl’s distorted resonance,
a dedicated outlier, forever unapologetic,
agoraphobic, and inarticulate with little interest
in this downtown hotel lobby overcrowded with
fiction-faced drunks, and their slurred semantics.
You will never really know me because I don’t
know how to explain it, as we’re ascending in
the elevator, as your finger’s falling down
my spine. I said nevermind.

The hotel floors are vertebrae in a backbone
composition where your finger is an elevator
and I am a building, of many hallways, rooms,
and floors but nevermind: we will not be this
way forever as we were never this way before,
temporary like each story’s stoic attention and
I don’t know why you’re listening but finally
it’s floor forty seven where two ladders take us
to confront this fucked up empty city. Of the
streets and the deaf buildings they keep, the
in-betweens where I walk: a phantom-face
bleach body forever wandering

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