I was once a star athlete.

“You’ve accomplished so much”.

“You must be proud”.

24-7, I’d hear this.

If not heard, inferred:

Changes in body language, vocal tone.

Subtle adjustments in physical

proximity .

”Well, kinda,” I’d reply.

Changing my body language, speaking out

of the side of a mouth, half-hidden

by a diffident, slightly puzzled


“But then again,

not really.

I mean, it’s fun and all.

Free beer.

Good times.

Fast metabolism.

Everybody reminding you

who they are

and where they ran into you.

But its nothing I want to take home with me.

Nothing I want stomping through my


Tracking asphalt and

dog shit up my walls. Crumpling my mags and Ish Reed novels and X-Men comics into asphalty

dog-shitty mache.

Ruining Sun Ra’s day with

“Rosalita” or “Heartbeat” or “Mama Used to Say” or “My Sharona”.

Dragging me away, away into a beer-ponged, Rambo’d


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