3rd & Long A cleat shattered teeth, truly chattering ivories, dangling from gum cubbies. The lineman stomped father after the whistle sounded. In dusk sun each drop bled resembled a raisin melted to grass blades, this could have been mistaken by an insect populous for hobo-suitcases on sticks. Dad tells this story better, his elucidation for the bridge first worn at seventeen throughout his stint on top of soil. "Son, wad up this towel in your mouth, get your ass back in there," grunted Coach Gung Ho to his quarterback. Then Dad responded in the way that made him Captain Second String. He strapped on his single-bar, battered plastic helmet, tucked in his jersey, and again stained the grass
sanguine. Dad told me later that Coach was a defensive
lineman in his playing days. Bet he leaked a tweaked smirk when Dad was pulled down for a four yard loss. Fiction I there's a sense of
fiction, here: where a sneeze sounds of vomit,
twice purple-hearted, thrice
congressional-medalled, venerated. II zero-toleration
tarnished, road kills are
pinecones. back home bards perform
open-casket
fellatio, USO show. the camera
girl adjusts her
lace-choked breasts and we seek
spring- time in morning
raped by sandstorms. III swivel-cam
round-about, cicada shells
sun-dipped. I miss the smells:
warrant- less, cartridges of sweet,
protruded from
kitchens and clammy, perfumed
skin. IV tobacco-rat
syncopations moved into the timid
blue of co-eds selling
friendship bracelets,
calligraphy in swivel- wrists. resist the patient raptor despite the impudent
rapture found in that third
or fourth medal, approval of pristine
metal. V we are bio-hazards
of mistrust, our shadows trails
of sludge.
