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September 16, 2007

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                      I woke up fully clothed on
naked mattress in trashed motel room to
digital camera's beeping and the simulated
sound of a shutter release. The door to
Room 3 had been left open when the last
guests left shortly before sunrise. I'd
flopped down on bed without undressing
or removing camera, wallet, or keys from
pockets--which turned out to be lucky as
dude-passed-out-on-floor had put his wallet
on the dresser only to have it stolen while we
both slept. Old habits die hard in a seedy motel,
as attested by the blood spatters on the wall
behind a chair which must have been a favored
place for shooting up.    When I woke, the furtive
photographer asked permission to shoot. Why not? I
covered my face as he clicked away for several minutes,
    exposing evidence.    I was quite at home in this chair,
       legacy of Steve, the motel's previous resident drunk
        who moved out Friday. The chair was still warm
         when I moved in. I would sit in it for the better
            part of 4 days, spinning 45s and drinking
             beer, finding little reason and no
                desire to be elsewhere.