And then they hit the ground, bang. dead and furious and so very full of themselves. It made me sick to think of what they were capable and yet they went on and on. same, different-day shit like this, again and again. When was the last time you had a good fuck? A fulfilling cup of green tea, or shit, when-in-the-fuck the last time was that you can remember smiling? 

You can’t see it can you? 

They had a fair over and up the street last weekend. I didn’t go, but I heard that someone started a knifefight and stabbed the shit out of some fag and then proceeded to swiftly beat him to death, and then chuck him, like the trash he was to them, back, ever so considerately, into his own yard. I guess people were everywhere too, just watching and pointing and shit. Can you imagine? Me neither.

What I am is what I am. And what you are is something that only you know and something that mystifies me to no end. Where do you live? Where do you sleep and when in fact do you stop loving those who hurt you so much you can feel your heart ache with that sick, sad, and angry compression pain? My heart starts to hurt when I’m insulted by someone that I never believed would; hurt by someone I love when words that are unthought escape them, flowing completely in my direction. The feeling is great and disturbing, like a small coronary, or a swift then prolonged blow to the middle chest with a wide-faced hammer from ten yards. The warm explosion of pain starts at the lower ribs and pours north to the lungs and then upwards to the spine like splintered blood running about the body in revolt. The feeling is terribly great and yet what is somewhat noteworthy is the fact that it can be quite the pleasurable experience if you go in for those sorts of things.

When I was seven and you were eight and we both had round-bowl haircuts from the other day, I stole three dollars from your sock and boy-panty drawer. I forgot to apologize then, but I just remembered that such an action was wrong and that you were due such a declaration. That day I bought you a grape snowcone, and a bag of chips and a double scoop chocolate for myself. We both sat in the carport and stepped on the cracks and the militia of red ants snaking all over the cement, and I whisper/prayed to myself that we’d end up lovers someday. I don’t know how that concept formed in me at that time. I think I thought being lovers meant living together and hugging a lot. When I was thirteen and you were just fourteen, in June, the sun was hot just after it came up. We were always already outside making forts and digging tunnels for our army of bendable camoflaged men. You had to piss and you never went inside to pee, you would run to the back of the house by our Dad’s old truck and piss on a tire. I followed you once, and watched, and you didn’t seem to mind.