Chaplain Ln.

You are upstairs in the room that overlooks the Chinatown streetlights- ceramic turtle bobbing its head on your desk- you spoke of the universal music, and you bought the turtle when it reminded you of that invisibility and that beauty that are the same, and which made you decide life was a tragedy that could have been written much differently, which is what made you angry, which is what made you write. It’s only just beginning, what is on your page.
They can’t really call it a song, so you call it a song. One taking place in Sausalito, which you have never been to, or know anything about but you use it anyway because of the way it sounds dirty orange and rich with the asha of old photographs of fields where men have died, which you can barely see, but you know the story and you stare at the black shapes, imagining the smell of death in secret.
Death- the last anathema, hidden burning in the shadowed sheets of your mind.

– War! It’s just a shot away! It’s just a shot away!

The song is never finished, not because death can be rarely sold, but because it can be rarely taught. Nobody hears from them again, or it never really gets out. Who would believe it in this kinda place anyway?
A coke can next to a coke bag and a thumb drive all cracked and soaking up piss and oil in the same hole in the concrete.

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