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Poetry

IPA

my dad bought an electric guitar

he’s trying to relate his suburban youth

to the process through which I became the kind of punk

who screams in basements

there are days when I should turn my phone off

and leave it like that for days on end, suspended

like traveling away from the Dream Motel

and not minding the bilious silence

why does this seem so heroic?

to plug in an amplifier, I must unplug

the billowing sail machine that brings me to the shores of touch,

with the people I want to remember me

to announce a visit, a drop by

(to turn on the phone again)

out of the blue, out of the wind

but they never do, they never do

Comment
by katcanread

As a painter of modern life, I do not paint.

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