A while back, Nick and I sat side by side in split-back forest lawn chairs. Huff and huff the porch's coat of scarlet stain, talking like existential cab drivers. Legs on legs crossed like war trenches or window blinds or a cold zipper's cold teeth. Life or death. More life on rye, Swiss cheese. Holey talk of Jesus Christ. Cross the cross and hope to die; I know we will. For now, though, skip small to get to big talk. Cursive hand separates notes and throws out the *******, but everything at that age was *******. Challenger never blew up, Dillinger never robbed, we never dissected life to see its uncertain pancreas. We're kids but can't act like it. Qualms with calm, and clever wordplay plays footsies with my thoughts. My stale bread secrets take up too much space.
I read Ginsberg's "Howl" today and started thinking. If I'm completely off, please send me a link to a poem of you crying on a snapback.