You were born old
June 7, 2012
To My Childhood Friend, Terry
You were born old. Never learned to play dirty. You are intellectually a museum. You think Arianism should have won in the war with the Catholics. You don’t believe in freedom. If it means you have the choice to act like a moron. Or a kid.
I have a wig. That I keep in a drawer. In case. I’ve kept my father’s false teeth. In with the silverware. I remember Saturday mornings saving my mother from my father. Tickling.
Driving to Boston. Feet hanging out the window. In the second week of August. The air tickling. The sky barking. My parents interrupted conversation. When the van t-boned our Pontiac. And sent my sister into Ohio. Luckily she made it back for Christmas.
I wish I had learned to dance. I wish I had learned to play that electric guitar. I wish I had learned to lick my ass. Like our cat. Who wore shades. And played in a band from Michigan. Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels. They were so cool.