He's gone. I write this in a petrified state of semi-arousal. I draw on these memories knowing what I cannot bring back: the white sun of that day we waded the river with our jeans and army fatigues rolled, our sneakers in hand (I wore a measly size nine). How heavy the future seemed. Him before me. We'd drunk straight vodka and smoked up until we were too cloudy to see. We couldn't stop laughing over how muddled our sound had become -- low-fi, twisted, intransigent, earthbound. He lobbed through the river ahead of me, his hips cutting the water, and I watched the line of his back as he balanced with thrown-out arms.

rYAN kAMSTRA
Clean Sheets 05/21/03