Rowan Ricardo Phillips

Boys

We’d cut school like knives through butter, the three ...

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That I can’t recall my first glimpse of my mother: Alien-eyed, wrapped in alien cloth, how could I? Once she held me she just was my mother. That’s just how it goes. This is just one of many Beautiful moments I’ve been a part of but can’t (And won’t ever) remember. That’s just life, I guess.  The void. That’s just a part of life: some hidden cave Sunk deep in the mind and built for Beautiful But Can’t Remember. I saw it once: here dissolving,  There reassembling like gleaned second-long seasons. And for what reason? I just don't know. Years asking Myself, Why? Why can we not remember this?

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Tonight

Tonight it coaxed music from a Harlem cloudbank. It freestyled a smoke from a stranger's coat; stole thinned gin. It was on the surfaces of its beginnings, but outside looking in. The lapse-blue facade of Harlem Hospital is weatherstill like a starlit lake in the middle of Lenox Avenue. I touched the tattoed surfaces of my birthplace tonight— and because tonight is curing, the beginning let me through; and everywhere was blurring halogen.

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