1958, or how methylphenidate ruined my love for baseball

Don't you know that? Silly gargantuan fuck with no eyelids seeping, sitting still, and slap happy boys in the mood for love. Not much he says, not much--Silver plates with badly ionized ring worm patterns centered in and over trashy cutlery with horrible out-of-style knives that he only wants for he will grab them and it, the one he especially picked by hand (the mallet hatchet type with the ergonomic handle, all rubber and comfortable) when he's hot and cut you with 'em. Shred your head with a hundred slicey blows like that one kid in Alabama did to his eighthundred y/o grandma neighbor last summer when the bees were making thier best batches and the fire lillies sung them due praises. 

    Tizlend Coma can become anything. His twin was free and clear and not but two years old when he fell off the back end of the Chinook ferry when they let it do what it's nature accepted. The route was curvy, short and made waves that the rich islanders protested. When he fell, the straw was broke, in a lasting sort of way. A cause, a reason, a whole heap of fakery led the way to betterment for some, them, those, few. Tiz had been happy skippy and full of joyous glee, wonderment, a magical child whose whole self was split. Childish he began, Childish was it to be sad and not realize it was them and not me and never him ever again. He continued saying that he could be anything. Anything at all. Consumer, trick, lifer, underwire, skillet or even dew. What-when and only ever why was questioned and answered with a sly remark that still edged and skirted anything truthful. 

    Pottery Barn employee of the decade. Tiz could be anything. Seven whales taken, four found...without the skins. YOu know why they call 'um 'redsKins'? Cause they lose the hunt and make the battle trivial with jokes and belittlement. But fuck if they don't have a good band! Powwowers whispered to me and the others, tightly huddled, you know he's really gay even though they don't say it in the press kit. You can tell by the way he blinks. When he does, like breathing lies when it's lawyers in the pulpit of sewage and crab spread oil crackers on warm spinach salad. Over way he goes, to Ivy and sit with Leo and make snide ass commentary for the small man before him who knows a trillion and a half valid reasons why he shouldn't DO your picture. I was hit by this ice cream truck-van sort of vehicle whose driver couldn't make his state mandated Child Assesment meeting cause it was three thirty and that, you know, is when all the kid-like people come out in swarms of packs of kits of schools of air refreshening-less hydroperoxided swims on the cold, wet hard and pliable asfault in the apex of the last days of disco. 

On Monday... 

    Then just three summers ago, I was hit by an Evian water buggy carrying "Mexcan Momitas" doing freaky lap dance shit to the driver while his kid did the steering. He paid before he got out to check my breathing. The kid was checking his own wallet while I felt the jaw part of my head go all free-agent and fuck me over by accepting the low, red offer. The driver man, as he began telling was his name, sat me up, coddled me softly, held my face like it were some broken penguin fin/arm and made a face that resembled disgust or misjudgement and resentful catholic guilt. He stood, let me go; face met road and more of me went loose. I didn't see the sounds coming, but boy could I taste the wailing, and the light above, which tasted like some sort of diseased barn fowl. 

Oh Lord why must ye taste so?