It was the midsummer of the 50’s and my girls and I went out for a bite. Jimmy’s Burgers was a block away and boy were we hungry! We could eat a cow for all we know. Jimmy’s jukebox can play music day in and day out.

My girls and I parked our blue Thunderbird Convertible, and hopped on in Jimmy’s. That place is always filled with younglings like us. You can smell the fresh potato cut fries fryin’ up in the greasers. The burgers are always my fave! I would beg to just get a bite out of those succulent, juicy ground babies.

Everyone in this joint always seems to be dancing their little feet off, the girls with their casual oxfords and pastel loose skirts; the guys wearing leather, pompadours, and their high-wasted pants. I love to crank that jukebox with only my quarters and dimes I have left in my purse. The girls and I sat on down in one of the red booths. A young waiter came over with bottles of coke with his pen and paper.

“May I take ya’ll lovely ladies’ order?” He was chewing on that mint gum.

Boy was he handsome! That sweet southern twine had me going bonkers. He looked all fancy in his all white uniform; his apron had ice cream stains and fry grease. His sandy brown hair was cascading behind his ears. I loved his paper hat too. His big brown eyes were looking into mine as he was getting our orders. I couldn’t help but stare back. He gave us our cokes and gave me a little wink behind his thick black glasses. I really didn’t care bout’ those pimples, his face made a girl melt like Texas asphalt on a hot beach afternoon!

I made myself look sweeter than a peach. I fluffed my hair and fancied my outfit, hoping for that rascal to come on back. The jukebox was still kicking tunes in the back, that’s when the cute waiter came back.  His tall, slender, perfect body walked on over and sat our tray of burgers down. My face was red hot like the time I first took a bite out of a chili pepper. The waiter got close to my ear and whispered,

“You wouldn’t mind if I take your sweet self on the dance floor for a second would you?”

Wasn’t that boy supposed to be working? I didn’t care. That rascal waiter grabbed my hand and swung my little waist on the dance floor. We twist, kicked, and shimmied. I was having the time of my life! I didn’t know my girls were staring at me, cheering on. Too bad the cutie had to go back to work. I walked over and sat back in the booth.

My girls were giving me the, you’re his sugar girl look. Not my fault he was sweeter than maple syrup!
The girls and I were finished at Jimmy’s Burgers, so we started to head out. Before I even opened the door, that waiter grabbed me by the waist and said,

“Hey sweet thing, leaving too soon? I didn’t catch your name?”

I looked into those eyes again; I felt my heart skip a beat like the jukebox when there’s a bug in it. His southern twine again,

“My name’s Robert James, but you can call me RJ.”

He kissed my hand and gave me that wink again. I gave him a smile and went outside. My face was peachy like a baby’s bottom! I didn’t even tell him my name, dog-gon shame.  From now on, I’m hittin’ Jimmy’s Burgers just so I can see that waiter.

Pilsner cap switch blade
tie dye and piccolo
greasers and freaks
with platform feet
muscling in
on the bow legged hoofer
tapping
Bursey Hill Tram

Diamond tuft console
mullets n' ****
angels and saints
(unrestrained)
appropriately trimmed
as 3 mile wreaks havoc
on the nickers and
fighters of penn

Bangers and home boys
hookahs and sheiks
hostile geeks
breaking knuckles and jaws
on the caners and skinners
who are locked
and grinding the root

Desert boot foothills
boardwalk jeans
rainbows and sea fairs
and psychedelic dreams
(the platinum queens
jamming it hard
on the jade room floor)

8 tracks
and fender packs
the hottest summer days
psychedelic haze
center hall, graffiti scrawl
(sinister yet refined!)
covering the subtle
yet striking third ****

Brunswick cues
and red man chew
350 blocks
(on a solid Chevy - stock)
monkeys and beatles
and laugh in scenes
pastel dreams
from the long and coveted
velvet scroll

What music
slowly covers
the background-
of twelve cylinder
nostalgia
and new age
conformity?
Blends with
the whispers
of the breeze
and the
child's laughter?
Where are we
now that
the Greasers
run the town?
Their style,
their swag,
so appealing.
What comes
if it when,
the canine
shivers
and the
heaters are loaded?

tight are the waxers
with gelatin scrub
their alcove smiles paired
on a check-board slate
dive jackets
and coveralls
mark the blue persuaders
stuffed lockers
and lattice straps
for a cold
pilgrim's stare

cork boots
and poly rot
rest in the C block
rank and file
mask a heavily
worn charade
windows wide
and curtains
thread bare
greasers
and **** rats
pardoned
on principle

chain link and
tether held
firm in the grasp
bead bites and
castle tops
slip in the **** steam
chants and speakers
blast from the back wall
elements stacked wide
for tainted leaners

strummers and pickers
held high on the jimmy jack
a chilled base breeze
at the ****** hole
rogues and hatters
stir at the mixer
an imitation face
closing in on the feast

maiden hands clasp
hard at the inseam
scuffed heals shuffle
on the peripheral scene
a cloaked man scurries
(chilled in his double sock)
moonshine
and mickeys
turned up in the jar

light streams blind
the paranoid eyes
laggards peeled
from the wretched
framework
veneer shattered
on a point strip groove
an overwhelming trauma
from slaughter
harbor

Standing at the corner,
Cigarette already lit,
Thinking about my problems,
But quiet as I watched the sun set.

My greasers and I hanging out at the drive-in,
Met some Soc girls who ain’t that scared,
Till Dally came and gave them a grin.

He says something funny,
And we all have a good laugh,
Till the blue mustang pulls ‘round,
And out pops some Socs waiting to jump.

Then they finally left,
With those girls we had met,
So Johnny and I had gone to the lot,
Talking about life and what not.

We fell asleep there,
Our dreams in the air,
Till the cold woke me up,
And I realized I had messed up.

I ran straight to home,
Leaving Johnny laying there,
As quiet as a mouse,
Hoping no one was up in my house.

To my surprise they were still up waiting there,
But then something happened,
That night changed my fate,
When Darry slapped me with so much hate.

I ran from home not looking back once,
Grabbing Johnny and fleeing to Dally for help,
He gave us clothes, a gun and a place to hide out.

On our way away from here,
We crossed through the park,
When we heard a noise from behind,
And saw a blue mustang that scared me out of my mind.

We tried to run but didn’t get far,
Till they showed us their rings,
And pulled out their ‘mighty’ guns,
Aiming for us.

I was dragged to the fountain,
Water slowly seeping down my throat,
Then it all went black for a moment,
Till my lungs were on fire and my eyes shot open.

I saw a body not moving in a pool of dark liquid,
Then I saw the blade in Johnny's hand,
The blood caked on his shirt,
And red gleaming on his blade from the rising sun.

I felt so useless and my mouth wouldn’t work,
Johnny had almost died,
I was so upset and scared,
But a man is not supposed to cry.

I grabbed his arm and pulled him away,
Heading towards the nearest train,
I woke up the next morning,
Surrounded by dust,
Wondering why Soda wasn’t there waking me up.

We had run away,
Now hidden in a church,
When we returned,
We saw the burning birch.

Three went in and saved all the kids,
But only two came out,
While one was trapped inside.

One ran in to save the other kid,
When all of the church crashed,
Now 2 are in medical care,
While I ran and got out of there.

Now all us greasers wanted to fight,
To punch some Socs and say goodnight,
The gangs got into a rumble,
One had won and one had fumbled.

Two greasers had died this night,
One was called a hood,
The other was called a hero like knight.

We gotta watch out for ourselves and each other,
We’re real close,
After all these guys are my brothers.

But like I said,
My troubles aren’t anyone’s bet,
I’m still at the corner smoking a cigarette,
Staying gold and watching the sun finally set.

i wish it was 1963
black and white tv
cold milk in a bottle
and none of this

i wouldn’t miss
any of this

still, there would be
your cliques, greasers and
preps

rich kids would get the ***,
the cars, the better ****

the poor will always be in
need of things

doesn’t matter the year

even broke,
that cold milk
in a bottle would
be there in the
morning

i wouldn’t miss
any of this

Hey kid, I woke up buzzing, here
In the future ruins of ancient America. 
Staring, after the imperial sunrise,
Listening to Los Angeles on repeat.
Insistent and purple, only 
Sediment left in the
Bottles of night. 

This third-world way
Causes Third World War
So I'm drinking at a 
Tavern on the End.
The bus goes by, and
"Baseball's the worst sport."

Alliteration, allusion,
Colors, characters,
And metaphors.
Sobriety sending me 
Searching for smoke. 
Rehash, re-up, and "read the ****** thing." My world-view,
Out-maneuvering your
Upbringing.

(The memories I have are white and yellow.
Fogged, not angry, if even confused.
You'd call me, after finishing your nightly readings, to cry about the characters you'd loved, and castigate my inability to care.
Remember when you used "undermined" to describe the adaptation?
You meant that it was "assuming too much.")

"Brenda and Eddie," over here,
"Couldn't go back to the greasers" so they
Wound up at your family's tavern. 
"You look like the fat kid,
On whom the popular girl was 
Forced to settle."

Dear Man,
Woman's found you out. Or 
Are we, justly, doomed to be 
More juvenile?

Worn sole, soul-open, "so long,
Kid, I don't know you, but,
I can't help myself from
Destroying you."
(My upbringing: out-maneuvering
Your world-view.)

"You've always been the caretaker, Flagstaff."
The bait's in your brain. 
You've simply been 
Overlooking the barkeep.

(Dear Diary, could I just die already?
The Price is Life, and purgatory's a game show.
Anger, the color of your mother.
Skin, the shade of yard-work.
Staring at road maps of Virginia, stoic.
Trying to divine the diners we'd die in.)

I can’t breathe sometimes and I cough when I laugh because when I was 13 being cool never felt right to me.
In middle school someone taught me that the Outsiders were the wise ones, they were punks referred to as “Greasers” and I had never identified with anything before that.
I learned that I could stay gold if I wore leather jackets and held a cancer stick so I smoked in the woods at night with my friends and listened to La Dispute.
We would stay up on the black tops with *** in water bottles. We could watch the sun come up over the playground before sneaking back into our beds.
It kept me gold until I wasn’t

by: William A. Marshall


I stepped off the world
today,
off the broken streets
that winter has damaged
and municipal assessments
off the political gluttons
and performative marks
off the know-it-alls
and wild dogs roving around
with their ****
noses in the air
it’s not pretty
they cover what they don’t know
so that they look good
I head back down the dark hallway
to get a more primitive angle
off of privileged confidence
they are vulnerable
basic caretakers pursuing opulent corsages
to free them from their anxious quotas
and ******* rules
telling me how to wipe my ***
and how to use baby wipes
jointly acting like they run things
from their phony utilitarian bus stop
and cutting-edge applications
their personal band plays a cheerful tune
in the background
as they search for a bigger
advantage and more likes
even though we all share the same horror
youth is about mistakes
and making money
and choices with one eye here and now
the other eye on prevalent professions
students and maintenance men
bureaucratic puppets and academics
farmers and auditors
sales greasers and coaches
writers and board members
somewhere they end up there
carrying a liability
and it creates a vibration in my foxhole
but right in here baby
deep down within me
inside my tomb
I transfer to a silent
place away from
rambling rotting fungus
I step off of it
not always methodically
and then back into faults
and louse packs
I can only assume my rock
that sits in my hole immobile
next to the ****** candy wipes
unless I push it up ontic peaks
nonbeing begins to doubt me
and grips part of you so don’t
think that it doesn’t
I cut it with my knife
obliquely
finding unfortunate contagions
and courage down in the vault of silence
it is there or it isn’t
it is what keeps my will interested
far from the ones moving rashly
without it you would leap from bridges
through minefields I remember
a certain detachment
an uneven and sick progression
paperwork and a number with
a D affixed to its file
the ceiling became the nightly norm
this plastic vacuum-packed
wedding gown made of white silk
made weird noises
in the back of my closet
like it was weeping
the kind of dress
only worn once
it smelled like her that closet
retelling me each time
I opened the private door
making fake crinkling sounds
an icon of pure young tenderness
love expense and faith
eventually cooked and burned  
but it is too early
those individuals that gloat in pictures
and dream about their prince
they are busy playing with
their hair and organic shoulder bags
driving around in furnished cars
the uncorrupted ones
constant courses to come and
subsequent interviews
nailed skintight dresses
soon to be colored sweet red
with danger competing
well you had better feel lucky
because when you plunge into
future swamplands
incompetence and repayment
of what to do with it
and how then to
fill up your cup
without spilling it
all over your soul
don’t tell me how
to live my **** life
now is your time
to reason and shake imperfection
interruptions
over and over
those that listen to your intrusiveness
false performances in chic coffee shops
it is not sustainable there
but you play the part to maintain
your chair in the cooperative
you will miss it
neglecting real evil
because you were talking too much
maintaining your image
Bradbury whispers
from the counter,
“You can't make people listen
they have to come round in
their own time wondering
what happened and why
the world blew up around them
it can't last.”
and numbness above nightly cocktails
distracted dub tracks
ultimately attending
hectic personnel meetings
in drenched swamps
spinning with heartless ***** jobs
unconcerned about safe comforts
two things balance them out
people and things
all part of it out there in the world
and they approach like a train
suffering shocks
unemotional images in chambers
some actually never return
from the beatings
but this isn’t the end
this is a commencement
for me
the forecast is water-resistant
they hurry snatching their
body spray and shower gel
on mirrored reflections
that scowl back at them
all alone there
in their glass steeple
family photos
thinking they have nurtured something
more than endless gossip
and ****** strains
much more important now
bent into independence
pausing with the approaching sunrise
as it splashes powerfully
inside their speculations
pride doesn’t care
if you think you are not puffed-up
at all you are
who in the hell are you kidding?
nothing to cling to
essential oilskins and manuscripts
credit problems
and autobiographical *** packed expressions
corner office windows
and diplomas
behind high-back chairs
trying to copy Sunday magazine’s
hottest statement
to fill up their life
a reminder just who the comics are
but it does not register
until that day
when it becomes intolerably vile
beneath wreckage
and burnt ruins
they find his
caring donation
clinched in the saviors grasp
jutting through burning garrisons
there is no truth more senior
than this truth here and now
but they can’t all be imparted
in this culturally planned folklore
I see them
when I am walking away
from the insulated bubble
down the street
like recruits in boot camp
and zealously rich parents
who send their youngsters
with luggage and loans
nearby like idols
salesman explaining things
as they nod like they are approving something
perhaps autonomy
from fathers and mothers
who stand with them astutely contemplating
the whole arrangement
they stare at the marble floor
I observe the run-through
the glittery entertainment
and documented departments
for happy pilgrims
who are insulated
for now

Gusto affairs spiraled to marooned stairs!!

Amphibious angel,
Where art thou own wings?
Apparent your sanctioning is,
Appointee of marital status!!!

Anthropologist of creations new madness,
Armful arousist!!
Arrogant aspirant!!!!

We are all baggage carriers of used goods,
Bestowed to thy own selves thou ******* of crud!!!!!

Very few bonuses this time around,
For the metropolis hath gone broke and choked!!!

For oil runneth this deliveranth!!!

Bind thy own,
You biggot of brigaded quarters!!!
None to coincide with ,
No cognac love to filleth me with cocoa nestled swifts!!!

Engrossment of shufflers, greasers to seventies sneakers,
Esteemed of high retailer goods!!!

Distinction between euphemisms blame!!!
Highed tops to spindle games,

Atrocious calibrations!!!!

Such tiredness flees the crime felt page,
Who's enraged?

Refute novelties of javahouse breaks,
Wherein assemblers are all members of cafe corner states!!!!

Paxilheads to axlehead drinkers,

Some material like,
Some medicinal thinkers!!!

How much shalt one taketh before his psyche leaves reclusiveness all behind the robust tower!!!!

pastor in the glass
and the fro - curly
like Qausimodo.


jumping up with the witchcraft and the girraffe;
no Greasers here
but the fleas
of the patron
persuasion


who done it?  
who done. it

like an AR15 on a freeway unloaded on the
gypsy
crocodile

loading my head up with lead
I've been dead

I killed the cat

I hung up my mat

I'm like dreaming excursion.

2 is 2 many but 1 is never enough

especially when there's no hash browns on the plate,  ya dig?