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.
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.