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Hello Mr. Magazine - - CONTENTS - Noah Michel­son

Two Bills, two Wills, a Wil­liam, a Wil­lis, a kind of halo con­stantly cir­cling my rup­tured head formed from an al­pha­bet of eye­lashes, of lumpy un­fa­mil­iar queen-sized beds, of last nights and to­mor­row nights and that Tues­day lunch hour with Aaron at the air­port Mar­riott, two Adams, a Ben­jamin, a Ben­nett, the be­gin­ning lit­tle more than the idea of the idea there must be more than my sore sorry self, a Stephen, a Steve, two Sams, a Brad, Joshua the bona fide storm trooper, Joshua the soon-to-be preacher, the wide-mouthed zip­pers, the sloppy courage con­jured by six beers on an empty stom­ach, a Monty who, while kiss­ing his way to my waist ad­mit­ted a lit­tle too brightly be­lieve-it-or-not-I’m-mar­ried, a Markus, two too many Michaels, a Mathew with one T and two piss slits, three Johns, a James, each name led to and laced through its own story un­til the two are merely the mem­ory, the end­less mend­ing of the mem­ory un­til only a span­gled bit of the true or rot­ten re­mains, An­drew with the badly be­haved poo­dle, An­thony with the beau­ti­ful ass­hole, two Christo­phers—one a bar­gain, the other a blun­der—a Tan­ner and a Miller, two vaguely Dutch crafts­men equally skilled in the art of ignition and de­lay, a Danny, a Dar­ren, the de­sire drawn up out of the dream of raw pos­si­bil­ity, of plenty, of famine, a Jef­fery, a Jeremy, an in­cur­able in­cli­na­tion to­wards the maimed or unattain­able or sus­pi­ciously long side­burns, a Blake, a Zack, all of the un­named, the ones who now only ex­ist in fumy, inkjet flash­backs—a bal­cony with a view of the tug­boats swarm­ing Jersey, a pair of nip­ples like pas­tel mini-marsh­mal­lows—a Nathan, a Neil—if I never loved any of you I hope you never knew it, will never know it, and after all of it what did I ex­pect?—A Sean, a Se­bas­tian, a Seth.

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