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All the Stories
Down in the Dirt
v211 (9/23)



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A friend of mine stopped being friends with me after Jeff Buckley died,

Ron Riekki

as if it was my fault,
as if the hauntings in my family
would haunt him,
as if we hadn’t walked,
drunk,
across Boston
together

one winter
when we had no money
for alcohol
or taxis
and so we,
honest to God,
would crash parties,

just walk,
listening for stereos booming
and we’d walk in
as if we owned the place,
head straight to the lyrics of liquor
and we’d pull the trigger
of the bottle

and we’d dance
until they threw us out
or we’d dance
until we threw up
and then we’d keep wandering
the dead nights
in the cold city

with the clouds all fainting in the sky
up above us,
and he left me.
There’s no need for that.
The world
is already painful
enough.



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