I remember 01.02

2017 November 6, 2017

I remember 01.02

I remember when I knew how to pedal a bicycle. A bike. I remember when paper was what I threw at the neighbors’ houses, down the street and around the hillside corner, where the trees were going to die, soon, from too many septic tanks and rotten roots, underground I remember how I begged my father every Sunday morning to help me to drive me around my paper route, six days a week in the afternoon on my bicycle and then one morning, Sunday, before dawn.

We went up to the top of the mountain to see the comet, one of those mornings. I remember it was like a long searchlight against the dawn, a white pencil-beam of light pointing away from the Sun, too bright, too bright, my gravity bends away and I flee this memory even as I drink it down, sweet on my tongue, bitter in my stomach, always reading the Bible as if any book could explain what I feel or why my crotch itched for sex, hungry, desperate desire to fuck.

No. I remember.

Thank you for being alive.

Yes. I remember.


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