I want to call my dad and ask him what he’s been reading lately.  I want to tell him that I am trying to be good and I’d hear back, in an east coast staccato, “Can’t touch up the Mona Lisa, kid”

I want one of his clean-shaven cheek kisses in the morning and a giant squeeze of aftershave and toothpaste.

I want an Adirondack chair because he told he once that if you’ve got an Adirondack you’ve got your shit together

I want him to say ‘One two-three-four-five…what comes after five? Cocktails!”

All I really want to do is let this scream out that’s been building in my throat since I saw the edge.

Caught wanting to peel back these shrouds 

Weeping and laughing and shouting words that hold truth, without fancy fuckery

To drink a dirty martini with five hundred olives and dance in the desert in a skirt and smile

I’m tired of pastel graphics 

What will become of all of us once the internet burns?

Have we fled so far from the cave that we’ve forgotten how to make fire?


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