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"SuperMiles" by Joe Cha
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The Spirit of St. Louis by Bob Flanagan & David Trinidad
If you’re in doubt about angels being real, prove it: hike to the nearest cliff and jump. You’ll either fly or you won’t. Most likely, you’ll hit bottom before you get your wings. You’ll be a sight for sore eyes, no better than the twisted wreckage of an airplane, like the one Buddy, that angel of rock, ended up in. Yeah, that’ll be the day you’ll die, die, my darling. They’ll have to pull you out, piece by piece, patch you together like some sort of mangled stuffed animal. Oh, let me be your teddy bear of death. Let me cover your last breath with my lips. Inflate me with your departing spirit; fill me with your diseased semen; pump me, drill me, drive me insane with desire! Then get out of my life! Leave me alone! I’ve fallen madly in love—with myself. I love myself exactly as I am, each hair and pimple precisely as is. And like drama masks, there are two of me: one who remembers you and longs to be back in your arms again, and one who hates myself for remembering and longing. I must be balancing some bad karma on the sandy shores between then and now. How many lifetimes has it taken me? Each new body’s no more than a new shirt which I put on without much willingness. Today I’m a redhead; tomorrow I’m tan; the day after tomorrow I’m just blue. I’m the chameleon of the universe, forever changing colors to fit your perception of what a good soul should be. You can’t see the real me, and won’t until the end. And by the way, just when is that?
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