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2005-11-06 - 2:50 p.m. in exchange for, you know, room, board, gas money, cigarette money & food, i have occasionally been typing up some of my dad's work. what a deal, right? i know, i'm an asshole. an unemployed asshole, but i 'm working on it. anyway. he's getting all of his poems together in a format that actually makes sense, instead of a huge trunk full of journals with all of the poems written into the back. & i'm helping him by typing them out, because i type a hundred and fourteen times faster than he does. it's weird. i'm working on some typewritten stuff that i think is fairly old, like from when we were living in new mexico. some of it is really nice, & some of it is peculiar, & some of it is just old poetry like all people who write poetry have: a good idea at the time. but mostly it's weird to have this window into his brain, what he was thinking & feeling & scribbling about all those years ago while i was falling out of trees in the backyard & busting open geodes with a sledge hammer.
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