DNA at the Radar Lounge
I found a photo of him at eighteen chopping wood in a backyard, shirtless. His scapulas
looked like mine, but when I met him at the Radar Lounge in Hollywood and he walked
through that red lined Naugahyde door with the gold buttons lodged in its skin every inch
or so, the bright sun glaring at his back, his head cocked to the right, like mine, I was glad
not to have his ears.