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Knee deep in nostalgia
floating across an ocean of melancholy.
Dreams of Broad Street
nightmares of Nevada Union.

Falling in love with you was an often and legitimate experience.

Sitting on the National balcony
watching the clouds shape.
Iced coffee from Foxhound Espresso House
bent paperbacks from Toadhall Used Bookstore.

California, you'll never let go of me.

******, driving Newton Road
the long way home (I always took it).
******, driving home from the Yuba
sun baked but hydrated.
Drunk, making love in the guest room
after sitting on the porch
smoking, drinking, sometimes snorting
later, making love.

God talked to me the other day
at first God's voice was my own
but I've never given my internal monologue too much air time anyway.
When I wouldn't listen God's voice became my little sister's.
God say "full of hate, full of apathy, also full of love, also full of patience, your heart can't take it. Go back to California and fall in love with her again." Laying down in a patch of grass I asked God "Again?" but she didn't answer, she spoke again "full of hate, you must fall in love with her again"
I closed my eyes and God showed me Liam and Lukas and Sam Hughes cuddling together halfway through a mushroom trip. "Love" God said.
God showed me the Yuba river, fit to burst. "Love"
God showed me my mother reading Audrey "Ricki Ticki Tembo".
This morning I slept in an extra hour,
I made a large *** of coffee,
and took a long shower.
Rubbed oil on my split knuckles.

I shaved, and moisturized,
I combed, and gave myself a haircut.
I made a smoothie, blended with peanut butter.

Looking myself in the eyes,
one of them black.
Wrapped bandages around my knuckles,
counted my bruises, 14.

Last night was wild,
the bar wouldn't serve me,
but I stayed for the fight.

A group of nazis in the corner,
yelling at a Moslim,
me and three others,
invited them outside.

It wasn't a good fight,
although it were fair.
Skinny **** punks,    vs
me and three Cowboys.

I think I broke a knuckle on my right hand,
I know I broke a nose, but not mine,
I know I broke a finger, but not mine.
**** punks watch out,
Denver Antifascist Action is growing,
and we're not sleeping
I moved
partly I suppose
to surround myself with
new things
to write about.

I miss
the foothills
the yuba
all my friends
and lovers.

Is that it?
have I doomed myself to write
about what I've left behind?

I close my eyes to the Rockies
and I see the foothills.

I close my eyes to the ski resort
and I see the bakery.

I close my eyes to the ******* the bus
and I see eight girls who probably didn't like me anyway.

I haven't asked for a coworkers number,
i call
the girl I fell most in love with,
she's even further away now.

my sheets are new,
not broken in, stiff yet soft.

my name tag reads
Nolan Fillman
Grass Valley California

people ask me where that is and I've lied every time
On the 6th day of October was when it broke.
Twelve pieces of eyelashes,
a chip off her favourite mug,
an old cashmere sweater with one moth hole,
a single earring on the floor,
the skin of her lips lying next to it,
and one broken heart, damaged, but still beating.
July was deeply Yuba blue
Reflecting everything white and berry tone
I only saw through it in time-lapsed clouds

August burned through the soles of my feet
orange and red and scorching

But September has come yellow

The poppies faded

The grass drowned in

The maples turning

So I will sit in my own golden California
watching time as colors
and willing Autumn brings kindness
until October comes purple
It starts off, I suppose,
being an escape.
From harsh noise,
from the crushing weight of suburbia.

Somewhere along the line
(a month, two years)
the reason changes.
It's gratifying having a secret;
the gas station clerk doesn't know,
your parents, your girlfriend,
your professor, your little sister.

They don't know you have enough dope to last three days.
They don't know your only concern is getting another score.

You smile, you sigh,
you meet for coffee,
you dig through the thrift rack,
you go to see a movie.
you don't smack in their view,
you don't snort in their presence.

That's your secret.
You no longer receive pleasure from the dope, the high is only to chase away the low.
You're different, you're set apart,
you have a secret and its consistently exhilarating.

Eventually, if say, you leave for three months, they'll notice the twenty pounds you lost, they'll notice the paling of your skin, they'll notice the apathy in your gaze, and they'll say
'Hey buddy, you doing ok?'
and you'll say
'Don't worry about me lover friend, rice and beans, rice and beans and easy living'

Phillip K **** says he can fairly well sum up sober living with one quote he heard from an ex ******. That quote is "if I had known it was harmless, I would have killed it myself"

you laugh until ya cry
I'm fine friends, don't ask about me
I wake in the morning
     birds not yet chirping,
a quick walk to the cafe
    at five I start working.

Cigarette break at eight
    cup of coffee, quick sunrise,
Lunch break at ten,
    shield the sun from my eyes.

At one I go home
    I take a quick shower,
Have a quick bite
    than nap for an hour.

At three I do chores
     today a load of laundry,
I'll sit in the sun
     today not a worry.

Tomorrow is Tuesday
    which means a day off,
I'll smoke a bowl in the morning,
     spend all day dreaming in my loft.
August came
   with stinging goodbyes
   in the full-glory of a red sun
   over pastures, cabins,
   and so much hope I couldn't bear it

I know nothing of what's happened here
    but this place, these soft people

And at least it doesn't feel like rotting anymore

Just the longing
   of lambs bleating
   and children waiting
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