Run

Come, we have to clean the house. The television set is dusty and filthy and the flies are sipping at the spoiled milk. The milk carton unfolded on the kitchen sink. I smacked one fly by the mirror in the bathroom. We have to clean all those toothpaste marks on the chrome sink and spout and the K-Y Jelly stains on my bed sheets.

No, John, he never made it through puberty. He still goes to his shrine at home and masturbates to the playboy magazines and gives himself sugar disease. He is sad. No, John, you cannot go to the nurse.

Why must I peel away my skin and show you my cleverness or sadness or holiness or calmness or secrets or desires or falsifications or horrors? Why should I open the door and be a fool and dig you a hole in my garden?

I’ve got a ton of chores to do but haven’t been paid my allowance. Swimming in the water pool and bands from Australia play on the outdoor radio. I’m in shades, but not myself today. See my reflection in my glasses and smell the hot dogs and pure beef burgers on the grill. We sat on the bench with the peeling and chipped red paint. The old rain-soaked wood bearing through and sticking to my legs. The brook aside trickles underground to where our gang spray painted on the walls of the tunnel of love. That dog used to bark at us all the time and one time I ran and ran and my head bled and gushed my hands covered in burnt blood dry and thick. But now I’m afloat, adrift in chlorine feeling the heat, but not myself. Not today, maybe tomorrow, lets play catch, I’ve heard that tune, but not that tone now forever now always.

The photographs are lovely. Pornography. Every word, or association. Yes, I belong to the club. Did you see that comedian? He wouldn’t sign. No religion? And no war?

He drove us to see Egg Bert in his old dark green Nova. She with her blond hair, I’ve got my blue eyes from her. I once locked the door and cried but Scooby Doo and my fruit roll-ups after school always soothed the sadness of Lalla and Jocelyn that never formed. She and I always sled together and had Dad build igloos for us. I never got to drive the Volvo or the orange Vega. I’ve seen the Volvo, now and again, it sounds like a television show. Perhaps that one that is all dusty and filthy.

One more, I turned around, tickled, I kicked his ass, I loved it from her. She can tickle me over and over and over again. We smiled, held, the mirror knew. Too bad I couldn’t fit or be or even draw or tell hot from cold I knew the yellow-eyed loved. Black and white view was the best, even climbed, never failed and always slept. I hope he dies in my arms and not yours, beast.

© 1999 David Greg Harth

99.09.23.02:28:39 @ 296 New York City

99.09.29.24:17:35 @ 296 New York City