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Floating through Time

My spirit finally agrees to escape

the body and scoots back to the LA

bus station where waiting was a young

guy hunched over, covered with ink,

his forearm tattoo reading Never

Forget Tomorrow, and without checking

his ticket I knew exactly where he’d been.

I too have wanted my skin

to not be my skin, tried counting

to a thousand, heaving breaths,

woken paralyzed by I don’t know what

adolescent jeer, mental or material.

Years later that would be me

during a layover in Costa Rica

or some Central American country,

the craziest part not even realizing

your borders, after I fucked up

and checked my ex’s texts,

saw te amo written to a drummer,

threw after her a book that flitted through the air.

For anyone to see, my head hung

like a sumo wrestler piggyback,

crying slow fat wads of tears.

Everyone just minded their own business;

maybe we should mind our business less

to test these vessels on the open seas,

though obviously not by imperial decree.

Posted 12/08/20
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