My father,
his cologne smudged hand-downs that I still admire; lost in an ambivalent past and future whose obscurity helps him shield his guise the life he has lived, the lives he has given; are pickle-dropped, cherry-stuffed pumped in top notch material of ethereal nothingness. I've seen photos of him in ray-bans that I now fancy, but it's been 30 years and they are too big for me and falling apart like wind breaker I carry, bought at a members only store at Netherlands whose name he can't pronounce, but his Arabic is probably better than his Dutch, so I forgive him for the nitty-gritty disasters of self absorbed beings created to sum up life, the home he built with the woman who lives in a solitary apartment on a solitary street, like his solitary children in unnamed spaces or spaces whose names they can't pronounce. My father, he's the golden boy of parents who lost their first, he's the golden boy who lost his first and second and it all. My father never believed in maps.
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