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It had good points, and bad.
Left alone, I would
play guitar, read,
listen to music,
beat-off undisturbed.
At thirteen
these were my new, favorite things.
Lying there, I could hear
people pissing.
Our Bathroom
drain water ran
behind my head, roaring
me awake from oceanic dreams.
I had a bare bulb lamp,
next to a scrolled
iron bed
all purchased
from "Browse & Barter".
Mom issued
my supply of sheets,
top and bottom,
a
thin blanket and
Sears sleeping bag,
It's permanently broken
zipper, zipped off the track.
Made the bed by myself, military style,
the way dad had showed us.
He was in the Army once. I
used my limbs spreading
layers over a stained cotton
mattress. Symmetric
corners tucked square, under
the frame squeaking
the springs
under me.
A bath towel served
as an area rug
the cement floor
damp and slick.
Mushrooms and moss
had grown
from the carpet, so
we ripped it out
Every evening I checked
under the bed, spraying
a can of RAID in and around
the corners. Same for the open stairwell
filled with spiders. Still,
I was afraid to sleep.
Mostly, I just closed my eyes
and tried to breath while
my old radio hummed,
balanced on my stomach it
kept me company in low volume.
At night, the FM
signal came clear
as Superman through
lead paint cinderblock
walls, rust red
colored veins bleeding
from the cracks, staining
my sheets.
Back then FM
was free form,
had an edge,
against forces
that invaded
my space,
my mind,
This space,
and me, FM
and a man, who was here
smoking in the dark
his hand orchestrated
mouth to side,
side to mouth.
Cigarette waving,
glowing red
at the tip as he
listened with me to
the music, tapping his foot,
listened to me breathe,
considering me,
then
tapping his ash, staggered
back up-stairs
to the drunken card game.
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