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Red Georgia Clay

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The golden mornings and silver sunsets
bleed into a sepia sort of evening,
where memories stain like photographs-
crisp and colorless.

Waiting from the waist up
for the Atlantic to drag us to the shore
with board rash and jellyfish stings
and sun-bleached smiles,
the air curled with wet/hot
and a hint of stupid.
Longboards drip in my garage
smelling of dust and salty sex wax,
hiding our waterproof lighters for the ankle-high days
(which were both and so were we).
MAR-I-JUANA.

Shelby’s, Sandpiper’s, and Sticky Fingers
all steamed with coffee and jazz
as I attempted apartment pool suicide.
Cinemagraphic spotlight swim-
tinged blue,
ringed with palm trees,
and lustfully warm.
I wanted to sink like Ophelia,
suffocate with the stars,
fill my pockets with stones and take a walk with Virginia.
My bodyfat would’ve done it, alone,
but pile on the surf,
the drugs,
the collective, constant sigh of a city at peace with itself,
and every individual grain of sand from St. Simon’s to the Keys
and I should’ve rotted in my own nostalgia three years ago.
Instead, my feet touched concrete
(because everything has a bottom).

Bury me in red Georgia clay.
Smear me baseball diamond orange
and dump me off the 10th Street pier
to dissolve like rock salt
in the same blue-grey as my lover’s eyes because I can not go on.
I cannot go away, I cannot go “home” I cannot GO.

The Sears Tower won’t kill me.
Nor will the Brown Line, the winter, or the Lake
(though you should keep an eye on those bacteria levels).
It is the gravity
of that gentle, quiet tomb
that will ultimately be my end.
Not the gulls, or sand fleas, or the ocean itself,
but the longing;
the loss of that lodestar.

Spin me,
Pull me,
Staple The Awakening to my skin.
Let my blood.
Let it sting.
Let me sink.
But, please,
Let it be bottomless.

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