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MONDAY, JULY 11, 2016
I have used up my faith,
such that sensationalism takes the place of true experience
I repeat the pictures of my past to new faces as I'm jerked this way and that on the same bus
The bloody bodies of muslims on the streets of Brooklyn, as their taxi doors are still flung open in the anticipation of a fare
The surreal picture of a city under attack that left scars in my mind, in my lungs

Coincidences and unexplainable ties between people that mean it must be fate,
parallel lives I deny for a prettier face

I repeat the stories of my childhood:
The hooded figure that made us eight sit bolt straight
The needle that he pierced me with
over and over until the black ink and blood mixed, dripping down to my toes

I repeat the stories of strangers as I roved in stranger places:
My love affair in Rome, in New York, in the rain
I repeat these stories until they are no longer real.

I go to church to observe delusion
I accept blasphemy and a new nickname:
Jesus! I repeat these images,
These sounds and feelings, until they become stories.

My experience is lost in retelling.



This probably one of your best ones yet.

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