“Triceratops had three horns,” you tell your little
brother, and he believes you. He believes you and
it doesn’t even matter you’re right. It doesn’t matter
how many horns some dinosaur may have had however many millions of years ago.
You’re his big bro and you can run faster than anybody
on the block and you can throw a ball farther than
Hughie Landers and you can climb any tree to the top,
so, uh, yeah. When you tell your little brother “triceratops
had three horns,” jesus cripes does he believe you.
“And we could both ride a baby one,” you say, “that’s how big
they are, even as babies, we could both fit.”
“Oh wow,” he says jogging along side you, eager to keep up
with your quick and long strides.
tight black and white, you flaunt,
flirt, fawn over anyone that’s not me.
ha, what a night. second chances are divine,
but no one truly thinks third time’s
a charm. oh right. you’re not counting.
if we’re in the same spot, our friendship is stronger;
now here’s the bite: absence does nothing to make the heart grow fonder.
No respect. Hell, no regard neither,
like Rodney. It’s ugly fun waiting
for you to get lonely so you’ll
hit me again. Hey! Watch the detectives
with me, babe. Please. I wasn’t born
in the 70s, but I know the hits. I can
grow a bad mustache. I can kiss your neck or…
It’s whatever. Just let me know. I’ll use my little
fingers like Elvis, try and get you to stay.
Long is the ramble, I say. Let it flow.
How often do you get to shout at a wall
that never yells back?
‘Always, I guess’ is the answer, but long is what
your rant deserves to be. You’ve been denied
the podium an inordinate amount of time. All the
more reason to not shut-up these days. Wail at all
the walls, just post-up and shout.
You can cry and if you do it in the corner of an alley, no one
will even notice. Only the brick will get a little darker due
to your tears watering the building.
If I were you, I’d just yell and cry.
Fake daisies litter the ground, around, near my feet.
Firmly stuck, still to the earth, they don’t come up high
enough for a breeze to catch them and make them (mark it)
make them say. The wind forces so much on us and around.
Even in a place like here, my vanity follows. Thin legs sway
into my thoughts; they are pressed, crossed on a chair; or some
dirt is on the thigh; boot tops cover ankles and a little more.
I often think about kissing you in that restroom. We could kiss
and rest in that room,
memes about gamers mean something to me
(because guess what? yeah. I’m a gamer)
so they hurt, okay? like, when you say ‘real
gamers don’t exist’ or ‘all gamers should be
euthanized.’ ouch. d o you know how many knife
kills I have in in WM2? over one thousand. a knife
is an intimate way to kill someone; intimacy denotes
sentimentality, which suggests sensitivity. I’m sensitive.
does a troll not cry? I don’t even make jokes about fucking moms
anymore. my mom had a cancer scare last october, and it really
put things into perspective.
You move more tipsy, and he holds you close
because of this change. The worry is everywhere
about him, but I don’t care.
It’s magic maybe they way we wear each others
emotions, like second nature. It’s fair.
You sparkle sometimes. I notice. Who else?
I can lust. It’s fine. But whether the weather
changes (and how much so) determines a lot.
Anyway, enjoy the rest of the “year”; let’s summer.
If we don’t see each other it would be a bummer.
I still owe you a lunch.