I forced my razor knife down into an anniversary coffee cup crammed with pens, pencils, two pairs of scissors, and one roll of color film I'm afraid to develop. I jammed it in blade- up so I'd have to deal with the hard part first like a blank page before an accidental tongue slip drips ink and makes the page pretty. Some tree I've never met and some pink dye died for me to cover this pressed pulp in illegible squiggles;
and I'll be ****** if I let it down. 'cause I'm drawn to things without opinions. Sketchbooks, inkwells, rubber band bracelets, a mixed-nut dragonfly rested on my trampoline net. // Cut it free // cut it loose.
Find a brick behind the shed and smash it dead,—preteen me— young Wordsworth me. I pulled the sepia tape from Queen cassettes and finished the glossy plastic off with a vise grip in Dad's truck. Old Brucey had mustard pinstripes down the driver's side, all the way down to the Germania General Store.
He was a blur to me before I could buy my own Dreamsicles. Passing the chicken feed and the resident, caged dachshund couple, I saw his face for the first time. Seventeen-years- old, staring at my grandpa through picture and plate glass panes.
The angels he swore were real—the ones he payed, praised, and prayed for every Sunday and everyday the sun shined and everyday it didn't—