Four Star isn’t Four star, even though the sign in the
parking lot still bears that name, and inside as well as out, it looks the
same, red and silver glowing on a street made heavy by the mausoleum-like performance
space Catholics used to use to crucify Christ every year this time, a place
still filled with the echoes of His passion, I brought my mother to see back in
1976, though these days I’m more haunted by the sacrifice in the Four Star the
back of my hands still bleed from self-inflicted wounds, ghosts of the past always
here to haunt us, even after all these years.
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