poetry

the lucky ones

I drive down Yucca
avoiding the traffic on
Franklin

it hits me
maybe out of nowhere
maybe that billboard I see is
what does it?

I get the sensation
of holding a rig in my hand
thumb on the plunger
ready to pounce

the taste in my mouth the air
thick with vinegar
the cotton everywhere

the fighting projects cinematically
in front of me
onto my windshield

watching it I think
“we should have been famous”
“jesus’s son” played out in
real time

like, for example, when:

you spit in my face,
point blank range
I was in the passengers seat
parked by a Vons or a street sign
or “the laundry mat on Adams”
I don’t remember what I was
yelling about

or, alternately, when:

I punched you in the face,
point blank range
we were in Tijuana
you said something annoying
about my father
I think it ended with tears and
blood on all three of us
and a blow job on a
public trampoline

I still think about
those cats though
especially the orange one

we named him “Tesla”
after we saw
“Coffee and Cigarettes”

I still think about
the empty stomach sensation

you told me you liked
the hallows of my killer body
sharp angles illuminating
my superior will
and self-control

(if only!)

I drive down Yucca
I wait less impatiently then
usual at a stoplight

in the future they will
make a movie about us
we are played by
Luke Wilson and Krysten Ritter

My father will watch it in
the theater with his mistress
and feel shame

I hope it is a box office
flop

the spell passes
I turn left on Wilcox
I drink my loose leaf tea and
listen to college radio
“I am glad it is not then”
I don’t say it but I
know it

maybe we are the lucky ones?

I drive down Yucca
lost in the irony of nostalgia
it’s like meditation
I go to work

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