I like hearing her sandals shuffle gracefully along the sandy cattail-riddled path to the shoreline, and the sparkle in her eye when she first sees the surf rolling toward her. What I don’t like is that boyfriend of hers, Jacko. He is a big lumbering oaf with more muscles than brains. He is always kicking sand in my face on their way by. She gives me a pi And I'm like: "What the fuck?" and she's like: "math" so I turn to her boyfriend "Jacko" and flex on him with my math skills. Then I took her home and f'ed his bitch like I did his -tory, composition and geography. I was more than just a student. I was a lover of education. I was the kind of scholar that could make you holler! I caressed my books like they were funk trunk hooks. I have no idea what that means, but I like the way it sounds…so, it continues. Now, back to being more than a student of history, composition, and geography - I'm a breath artist. I don't breathe like normal people, I breathe in patterns and rhythms, otherwise I forget how to breathe at all. Composition is my essence, my identity, and what I strive for. But I must keep my blanket nearby, for I lose my mind when I can't smell the sweet scent of dry milk on that old pice of cloth. So I went about cutting a square of it off so I could place it in my jean pocket for when I travel from home. Being a toddler in the body of a 55 year old white male can be hard, people … usual folks (not folks who can quote F. Scott Fitzgerald’s story The Curious Case of Benjamin Button) …ill-informed backwaters folks whose brains are age 3 and bodies age 55. Like me. Say, do you like checkers? Can we play checkers now?

 

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