Ever felt like you had the one
for you, and
you just let her duck out?

See, I got this girl.

See, I had this girl.

See, this girl really ****** me,
see?

This girl was an island girl.

This girl ****** in torrents.
Argued in cannonball barrages.
And hugged like a linebacker.

Those island girls are thick:
all thighs,
all ***,
all fire
like the volcanoes we all come from
and forget to remember.

But they remember.

And they live it.

See, this island girl, was a bigger, thicker one,
and I could throw her around any way I wanted.

And she liked it,
and I liked it,
and,
I'm telling you,
this island girl could take an ***-canning whooping
like nobody.

I mean, I'd make sure her ****** became
a bruised rose
and she felt it.

But,to talk about love,
the *** was a good thing,
but she could argue,
and I think I like that
more than I'm beginning to realize.  

Just like a short poem on a ***** day.

In the stands, down 35-3 with two minutes left in the fourth,
Fred Carson picks at the sticky, white remnants of a Coke bottle's label.
He leans over to me,
"Do you mind if I talk to you again?"
I don't, and haven't since kickoff.

"You know, I played running back on this same field."

"Oh yeah?" I say, allowing the story to commence.

"Started all four years. Rushed 1,000 yards as a freshman."

"Wow."

"It took five guys to bring me down by my senior year."

"That's insane."

"I probably still hold the record for most rush yards,
but I doubt they keep up with things like that."

He takes a sip from his drink. It's half empty.
His hair -- greasy, most likely on its third unwashed day --
parts to the left and clings to his skull.
He's wearing a long sleeve, plaid dress shirt.
The shirt is buttoned to the top.

"Hell, that was back in 1968," slows, "I graduated in 19-68. Jesus."

Fred retired from the post office six years back.
He claims he's never missed a game of Blue Jay football since 1970.
The high school band starts playing in the section next to us --
a misshapen cover of "Louie, Louie".
Fred raises his voice,

"You know, I've been to every football game since 1970."

"Yeah, you mentioned that last week."

"I apologize. Yeah, if it wasn't for that first year of college.
I got a scholarship to play ball at Florida State.
Couldn't be there and here at the same time, you know? Kinda hard."

He runs his big-knuckled right hand along his khaki'd thigh, checking his pocket.
He checks the left thigh -- nothing.
Reaches into his shirt pocket and reveals a lighter.
Then a soft pack of Marlboro Lights emerge.

"You know, I ran the fifty in less than five seconds."

To the dismay of cheerleader moms sitting behind us,
he lights the cigarette.
He stares at the Bic lighter with some NASCAR driver -- number 88 --
I don't recognize.
The cutout of the NASCAR driver's scraggly face
sits atop a navy blue and spiraling purple backdrop.
He starts to scratch at the label on the lighter.
A screech from a clarinet rises above the rest of the band,
Fred grimaces, takes a drag, continues,

"The coach at Florida State said I was the fastest boy he'd ever seen.
He said I was going to go pro. Sure thing, he said. I rushed for nearly
300 yards in the first game my freshman year. After the game,
the coach was like, see boy, I told you. You are going to tear it up
this season."

The NASCAR decal comes completely off. Under that purple and blue label,
Fred uncovers a white lighter.

"Would you look at that. I wouldn't have bought the **** thing if
I knew it was a white lighter. That's bad luck, you know. Hendrix and
that--uh--Janis Joplin lady both died with a white lighter in their hand.
Bad luck. A white lighter is bad luck."

"What happened at Florida State?" I ask.

"Well, we were playing Notre Dame during the second game that season.
Down by five with three seconds left on the clock.
We were on our own thirty, and the coach of Florida State was like,
run the hail mary play. But in the huddle, I look the quarterback
square in the eyes, and I say to him, captain -- he was team captain --
I say, captain, I'm hungry for that ball. He knew I could do it.
He took the snap, the receivers rushed down field, and I bolted toward
that line of scrimmage, took the handoff and I was gone, baby."

The crowd begins to cheer as the Blue Jay quarterback throws a long pass
to a wide open receiver. Fred freezes mid-story.
The cheer blurs into a silence, as each person in the bleachers
watches the ball ascend.

For the first time all night, the band lowers their instruments from their lips.
Just a ball floating.
The buzz from the stadium lights becomes audible.
One person gasps.
Then like dominoes the stadium follows suit.

The high arc of the ball betrays the distance,
and the pigskin plummets sharply.

"Interception!" the announcer cries through the speakers.

"That's a **** shame. I thought he was going to have it.
What were we talking about?" Fred asks as he drops his
finished cigarette into the nearly empty, naked Coke bottle.

"You were talking about Florida State. You were down five and--"

"That's right. So, I break up the middle. I dust that noseguard.
I stiff arm a linebacker. I looked like a Heisman trophy in motion.
I travel 69-yards down the field. I'm slowing down at the endzone,
thinking nobody is around, and sure enough -- plow -- the cornerback
dives right into my leg. I broke all kinds of bones and tore all kinds
of muscles. The doctor told me, he'd never seen anything like it."

The band plays the fight song as the clock winds down and the Blue Jays lose.
I try to disappear in the sea of blue and silver exiting t-shirts,
but Fred slows me down,

"It sure was good talking to you. I'll have to tell you more about Florida State
next week. Be sure to sit by me."

"I will," I say as the band director, Mr. Morton, steps in front of me.

"Hey, Fred," Mr. Morton says. He looks at me, then back to Fred.
He's trying to decide whether or not I'm of relation.
"Son, I went to Seminole State Junior College with Fred here
when we got out of high school."

"Really? Did you guys play football together?" I ask with innocent inquisitiveness.

"No, we weren't really into that. Though, we were at all the games.
We were in band together. Until Fred's wild streak got the best of him,"
Mr. Morton laughs, "am I right, Fred?"



The fight song came to a close.
With a lowered head, Fred walked into the silver, blue crowd
with a plaid dress shirt buttoned to the top.

He had been a professional player
A linebacker
They were built tough
And big
When he left, he created something new
Something different
A business
And a non profit to help kids
One day unexpectedly
A woman came to work for him
Her background was different
She had stepped out of her field
To try something new
She had never been this close to a celebrity
It’s a different world
He had never known someone with her background
They decided to try and make it work
Using the strengths of each
She became his chief of staff
Surprisingly it worked
They both grew from the experience
The linebacker

He had been a professional player
A linebacker
They were built tough
And big
When he left, he created something new
Something different
A business
And a non profit to help kids
One day unexpectedly
A woman came to work for him
Her background was different
She had stepped out of her field
To try something new
She had never been this close to a celebrity
It’s a different world
He had never known someone with her background
They decided to try and make it work
Using the strengths of each
Surprisingly it worked
They both grew from the experience
The linebacker

I like to wear tiny shorts
On my big fat ****.
And little tiny tops to make
My ***** look big.
But if I catch you staring at me
And ogling my *******
I’ll suddenly get all proper on you
And call you a pig.

Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder
I run with a very different pack.
So don’t come crying on my shoulder.
I’ll tell you to step your *** back.

I love my hair bleached orange
With lots of dark roots.
I keep it long, and badly cut
Then wear a pony tail.
I walk like a linebacker
On the scrimmage line.
I think I look extremely cool
Like I just got out of jail.

Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder
I run with a very different pack.
So don’t come crying on my shoulder.
I’ll tell you to step your *** back.

If I wear a hat it is a stocking cap
And some boots I stole from a boy.
It all goes well with raccoon eyes;
The makeup makes it work.
I am so **** hot that I am sizzling.
If you object you are jealous.
So, I ignore your comments and sneers.
You must be a bunch of jerks.

Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder
I run with a very different pack.
So don’t come crying on my shoulder.
I’ll tell you to step your *** back.

He had been a professional player
A linebacker
They were built tough
And big
When he left, he created something new
Something different
A business
And a non profit to help kids
One day unexpectedly
A woman came to work for him
Her background was different
She had stepped out of her field
To try something new
She had never been this close to a celebrity
It’s a different world
He had never known someone with her background
They decided to try and make it work
Using the strengths of each
Surprisingly it worked
They both grew from the experience
The linebacker

I can't remember the last time i had a real smile.
I lost it somewhere back in 2007.
It hitched a ride on the back of someone's fist and was gone for good,
ran out on me, like a linebacker for the pro's.
I have a smile, i made.
I found some superglue, and some matchsticks, and held it together with my eyes.
I used it to describe the way i wanted people to see me.
It was like a stretched piece of gauze,
because the original scars still cracked through,
and i didn't want people to see,
the real me.
I carry this smile with me everywhere i go,
It's only for public use,
at other times, i hide it away in the kitchen drawer,
with the bills, and important letters,
that i will deal with,
one day.
I sometimes wonder what happened to that smile.
Is it coming  back?
Is it taking a holiday?
Is it teaching me a lesson?
Is it fighting through the hard times to get to me, desperately?
Is it waiting until it is, well deserved?
But still, i guess, i will keep the glue,
as this one seems to be working,
and no-one seems to notice,
the difference.
And i appreciate that its not easy to be a faker,
but at least when you get so good,
you don't really remember who you really are.
And that's really ok,
because no-one needs to find that out anyways,
when you become what you believe,
and find it really does come true.

I felt it, i had it, 16 times down the road, i had it. cut like ***** clean on ice down the back of my throat. Tickled my tongue with wishes of lust. 34 days crashed into 3 and half hours of manic words, thrown out in to the air accompanying articles of clothing i wished we'd never worn. I cut it open early, i could smell the beauty of the fight that was to come. I would not protest, because 'thou does protest too much' you would say as you clamped my hands behind my head and threw me down like a linebacker making his 100th play with the cheerleader watching from the sidelines. I threw pictures at you, ones i had taken when you weren't looking, ones that you wished juliette lewis had been in the background, sashaying some old country moves. I found eyelashes in places i had never felt before, counted a thousand wishes off the palm of your hand.

Zipped me right back up like some old vintage boots, turned me around six times and downed your beer and told you to try it just once, and i would kick your ***, bruce lee style circa 1982. I lost my lines, found them under your footprints, lost my voice and found it imprinted underneath the lipstick you left on my inner thigh. Breathless i watch you walk towards me, like a mirage, like you were swimming underwater, fully clothed. And whoooo-weeee HOLY cow, i gave you one more over-the-shoulder-knock-me-out-backwards-she-was-the-rumour-i-tol­d-ya-about stare, made you wonder eh? Made you think i was something else eh? Never think i am anything more than what you think i am. I wore those boots, i frikkin owned those boots, and **** i looked GOOD.

This is a moment. How great is this? I am not waiting around for it, for you, because waiting means i have lost time. I would rather dream of you, idolise our future, walk around like i owned the place, hold my head high and make nuclear footprints down weary roads. Every day, is like this to me, i am not perception, i am not thought, or theory or idea or time....i am no-ones government.I bent high and low, warped and wrapped my face around forces i could not understand, stretched my arms wide open around the world and its sons-of-a-*******, and it still didn't fit, so threw the ****** off.  My heart is tattooed on my arm, slightly above my scar from that second-time-round-relationship that got me nowhere, but i cut it out, that's me, that's how my love rolls; thats why my love rocks; bad *** high roller, floating, fighting-til-it-dies, beautiful awesome heart.

So i packed up with my cigarettes and my phone in my back pocket, met you at the car with a bottle of JD and two limes. I thought you looked too good, your hair like that, and your half smile. I wanted to make you a movie star of local proportions, so that the credits would hold your name and mine together in lights, and local boys would be too scared to ask your name. I made you a cd, sat with my camera and took pictures of the places you said you hated, watched as your collarbone played hide and seek with your hair, your mouth moved to songs you didn't know. 16 times i turned, 16 times you got me, i had you at that. So i took off my socks and shoes and got ready for the drive of our lives, because the needle was better than the reality.