Never one to cut corners about cutting
corners, you spun the Subaru into a rough
U-turn right in the middle of Old York Road
at midnight, scaring the shit out of this self-
declared “artist.” The issue, as ever, was
nothing particular to celebrate. We could
only connect nothing with nothing in our
private suburban waste land. Here’s where
the fun starts— I got out, motherfucker.
I made it. I say "I," and it works. But Old
York Road at midnight is still what it is.
I still have to live there the same way you do.
The Junior Prom deposited me (and fifteen
others) on the floor of her basement. I could
barely see daylight at the time, and at three in
the morning I began to prowl. I was too scared
to turn on any lights. She emerged like a mermaid
from seaweed. I needed comfort, she enjoyed my
need. We had gone out- she was bitter. The whole
dialogue happened in shadows. No one was hooking
up in the other room, either. You spiteful little princess.
Your skin sags around you like an old lady’s
pink jowls. You used to live a dynamic double
life, with constituents coming out of your ass
from three schools (this is when we were kids).
No one anywhere knew quite who you were.
Now, I hesitate to state anything for the record
these guys are recording. The whole process
creeps me out. I sat in the back of the Subaru
while they egged somebody’s house, or he took
a handful of CDs from Tower Records, placed
them under his sweater or into his boxers.
What I tell them is the truth: there was too much
in you that you never even knew about. You were
a mystery to yourself. You were the kid at the
bowling alley trying to hook up with the twins,
or the obsessive devotee of another head-case.
Now, I’m a head-case who knows the same thing
is true about me, and if my skin is tautened it stings.