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  • three days a week I cross the new Bay Bridge to work in Oakland, and I watch the old one taken slowly to pieces. a few days ago I realized how many ghosts I have living on that old bridge. ghosts of awkward breakup silences in heavy traffic, and vocal warm ups rushing to Beckett's to sing with Nicole McRory. ghostly flutters of new love and adventure waiting for me in the city, and of losing color coming out of the east-bound tunnel late at night such that the world seemed out of a noir for a moment. the thrilled ghost of my first trans-bay motorcycle ride, and other ghosts on the backs of motorcycles, clinging with lust or longing to the body in front of me while the wind whipped around us. ghosts of rubbing my burgeoning belly and wondering who was growing in there. where will these ghosts live now? somehow they seemed to hold their form while there was a place for them to walk around.
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