Collected Juvenileness

by Jeremy Hinsdale

Copyright © 2017 by Jeremy Hinsdale

All rights reserved.

First edition e-book, 2017

jeremyhinsdale.com | j@jeremyhinsdale.com

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Teachable Moments

When I was little I had

a quiet little black friend

named Boony.

One bright spring morning

our single moms dressed us

in miniature corduroy suits

and took us to some church’s

annual Easter egg hunt

for “broken” families.

In the churchyard there was

a long table full of prize baskets

for the lucky children who found

one of the special plastic eggs.

All us poor kids bit our lips

until they turned us loose

at which point the bright pageant

became a pre-k bloodbath.

Lust, greed, envy, wrath

we were all transformed into

eager little Judases

worshiping at the feet of a pink egg Mammon.

Except Boony. He just went

around quietly picking up

the plain hard-boiled eggs and

nestling them into his basket.

There’s a photo of us together

taken after the hunt

I have three prize baskets

and a shit-eating grin.

Boony is looking away from the camera

his sad basket nearly empty

but his face, nestled beneath an afro halo,

betrays not a hint of envy.

I felt bad for Boony

and ended up giving him

one of my baskets

but not willingly.

No, you would’ve thought

I was the one being crucified

as my mom tried to pry

that Jesus basket

full of cheap toys and candy

out of my greedy little fingers.

Better to Give

My moms was having a hard time getting the word

out on the street that she needed rappers for her

PSA about HIV in the black community

(how not to get it.)

So she arranged to hold an informational assembly

down at Juvie Hall and said she’d give us

$50 to warm up the crowd.

After the 300 or so aspiring criminals

got a stern warning from the warden

not to hoot, holler or throw sharp objects

we took to the auditorium stage.

I played a drum I found in the trash,

Reuben his Jew harp

and Bad Luck Dwayne “rapped.”

I don’t remember much about our impromptu ditty

except for the chorus, which went:

“How’d you get AIDS? I don’t know.

Maybe an infected drug need-o.”

As our last note echoed

through the hushed auditorium

I realized just how lucky we were to have

good families and safe homes to go back to.

Because if we’d been in

those less fortunate young men’s shoes

we would’ve beat the brakes off of us.

Tongue of Many Colors

There are a lot of drunk, red-faced Polish men

wandering around my neighborhood.

Sometimes there’s a bum convention

down by the chicken joint, but mostly

they come in wobbly, sun-burnt pairs

and wherever they come to rest—

on gaudy underpass sofa or

propped against graffitied wall—

it always seems the lanky one

is giving the catatonic one

a very important lecture

in a breathy, alcoholic tone.

I don’t speak Polish, but I imagine

it goes something like this:

“You were nothing before you met me,

just a backwards farmer with an ugly wife

and a sick mule. Now you live in the greatest

city in the world, where almost every corner

has a comfortable bench to sleep on,

a half-eaten chicken dinner in the trash.”

A Zen Story

A young monk was sick of Master Phu’s liberal use of the stick during sitting practice and decided to play a trick on his teacher. He found some fresh dog excrement in the street, scooped it into a paper bag, and made his way to the master’s hut. Once there he placed the bag at the foot of the door, set it ablaze, then rang the doorbell and hid himself in the bushes.

Old Master Phu opened his front door and, finding no one there, looked down at the small fire burning on his stoop. He slowly craned his neck through the doorway and sniffed the air vigorously three times. “Sniff! Sniff! Sniff!“ He then slammed the door shut and disappeared back into his simple abode.

Realizing Phu must truly be enlightened, the young monk resolved to confess his crime at the earliest opportunity. He called upon the master immediately after his afternoon chores.

The monk waited patiently while Phu prepared tea and then mindfully served first his guest and then himself. The two drank in silence for some time before the young man gathered the courage to speak.

“Master, I have come to tell you that it was I who laid that burning turd at your doorstep this morning,” he confessed ashamedly.

Phu closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and began to stroke his long, white beard. It seemed to the monk as if countless bardos passed before his master spoke.

“It’s cool,” the old man finally said. “I dipped my nut sack in your tea cup.”

When the Saints Go Marching In

We were halfway to The Big Easy

when somebody got the idea

that we should super glue a paper cup

onto the top of the rally mobile.

So Willy got a “Big Honcho”

soda bucket at the next Pump N’ Dump

and we affixed it firmly above

the passenger side window.

They say every day there’s a miracle, and on that day

there just happened to be a Christian youth group

sizzling like weisswursts outside their van

at the other end of the parking lot.

We all agreed that, no matter what,

we’d just smile and wave as we passed,

but we misunderestimated the faith

of those ignorant good Samaritans.

The way they all but flung their virgin souls

beneath our slowly turning wheels

you would’ve thought the archangel Gabriel himself

was in on it, had told those sunburnt soldiers of God

that our looming beverage disaster was their big chance

to purchase a one way ticket into the kingdom of heaven.

Willy could cup his hands around his mouth

and make it sound like he was playing a harmonica.

We broke into a rousing version of that old-time spiritual

as our car trundled back on to the southbound highway.

Tainted Love

Every Valentine’s Day my grandma used to send

me a $2 bill folded up inside some syrupy card

where she got all those Jeffersons I’ll never know.

But I suppose she was smarter than I thought

because the corny card always made me feel guilty

and you can’t buy even a gram of fun with two dollars.

You can’t rustle up a pack of Camels with two bucks

a wrist rocket or a Chinese throwing star

the guy at the peep shop doesn’t even believe it’s legal tender.

One Valentine’s I decided to just get rid of the thing

so I gave my grandmother’s card to pervy Ron

who worked the sidewalk in heels down by the bus depot.

“To the World’s Greatest Grandson,” Ronald lisped as eased the card open

fondled the bill up to his dirty mustache and inhaled deeply

“Just enough for a nice, hot vapor rub, baby,” he purred.

Since then I just put my grandma’s valentines

into an old shoebox and hide them beneath the stairs

with all the other monsters.

Metalhead Story Problem

Bad Luck Dwayne’s uncle is a roadie

and can get him tickets to tonight’s big show.

Dwayne, Ron Lispy, Pipe-Scrapin’ Brandon

and me have nothing better to do so

they drive down to Big Mac Arena.

Though the band hasn’t released

a decent album since “Pyromania,”

the delinquents wait courteously in the

teased and feathered will call line.

At the counter a pimply guy

hands Dwayne an envelope.

Dwayne’s uncle has promised a ticket for

each youth, but inside there

are only two tix. A big number “4”

is scrawled on the front

of the envelope.

They wait patiently in line again.

Back at the counter, Dwayne carefully explains

the situation to the pimply guy and

shows him the envelope.

The guy listens and then replies,

“That looks like a ‘2’ turned into a ‘4’.”

Dwayne’s face turns apoplectic

like a cartoon character on tilt

before he grabs the guy

and starts shaking him

by his wage slave vest.

“MY UNCLE IS A ROADIE FOR

THIS LAME FUCKING BAND!”

he screams.

Six cops then drag both Dwayne and

the tickets kicking and screaming

through an unseen side door.

How many arms

does the drummer have?

The First Feast of the Ghetto

My mom’s a vegan but sometimes cooks

meat for her Pekes. She says they beg her for it.

One Thanksgiving she pulled a drive by

but I wasn’t home

so she left a turkey dinner with

all the trimmings on my stoop.

On the way back from the bar

several hours later

I passed a homeless guy

picking his teeth with a pin bone.

When I got home it was as if all the misfit

roaches, rats, pigeons and alley cats

of Brooklyn had gathered on my stoop

in some kind of twisted holiday tableau.

I was pretty pissed at first—

the marshmallows having all been nibbled

off the top of the sweet potato casserole.

But eventually I got over it

and sat down to sup with

all of God’s buck-toothed creatures

a drunken Dr. Doolittle

at the first feast of the ghetto.

Waking From Drunkenness on a Spring Day

Life in the world is a big fat dream

So I’m gonna call in sick forever

I said as I put a nipple in my coffee

And retired to the porch to watch the workday parade.

When I woke up I stared out at the overgrown yard

A sparrow sang from atop a rusty mower

“Did Woozy Way win in the eighth?” I asked

A car alarm answered on the breeze.

I listened to the street’s serenade and sighed

Old Granddad was still kicking so I poured two fingers

Singing along with the radio I waited for the new moon to rise

By the time the late show came on my senses had flown.

The U-Turn Man

There was a dark house on a quiet street

in our suburban neighborhood that had

homemade “No U-Turn” signs all over the lawn

“Violators Will Be Prosecuted!!!”

So one day after school we decided

to go there and do a U-turn.

A man with a shaggy beard wearing a bathrobe

came running out of the house

screaming and snapping Polaroids

as he chased our rusty Datsun down the street.

That was how we discovered the U-turn man.

We soon fell into a comfortable routine

of paying a visit to the U-turn man every Friday night.

Often we’d flash some part of our bodies

sometimes we’d light fireworks

one time we all wore Mexican wrestler masks.

Neighborhood legend had it

that the U-turn man was a Vietnam vet

who’d seen his buddy struck down

during a weekend bender in Saigon

by an MP who pulled a u-ie in a jeep

but maybe he was just plain crazy.

Either way I like to think

a kind of mutual respect grew

between us and the U-turn man

that somehow we both understood

the only thing that kept us from losing it completely

in that dreary, cow-punching town

was the occasional minor motor vehicle offense

the thrill of the chase.

Let’s Go To Prison

The A.P. ran a story that was not flattering of Falun Gong

and the next day a bunch of slow motion Asians

began picketing outside our building.

They’d arrive in the early morning

like the world’s saddest parade

bearing the sound of scratchy Chinese folk music

and bright signs with imaginative scenes

of torture emblazoned on them.

Every day, even if it was cold or snowing

they’d shiver in the Jersey winds like exotic shrubbery

while the office gals puffed, wilted, and rolled their eyes

and the suits eased past into the lobby’s warm maw.

Then one morning the Daily News

printed the wrong winning numbers

to their scratch ‘n match $10k instant win promotion

(no purchase necessary)

and, discovering they’d been man-bitten once again,

a rowdy chorus of ragtag News readers

joined the Falun Gongers on the sidewalk

chanting “We want our mo-ney, yo this shit ain’t fun-ny.”

Soon the cops arrive and it starts getting rough

so everybody breaks for the nearest bodega

except the mock Communist prisoner

who just sits smiling in his cardboard cage

waiting to get cuffed and taken downtown.

People like to talk big about freedom and opportunity

but when they start cracking skulls only a few

are willing to take the fall for their principles

but I figure that guy just realized he had nothing left to lose,

that in America a real cell came with heat and three squares

which was better than that goddam sidewalk gig any day.

Brother John

Dwayne met Brother John

at juvie after he got

busted trying to pass a bad check

at an E-Z Pay.

After he got out John

contacted Dwayne and offered

to take him to the movies,

said he could even bring a friend.

Soon me and Dwayne were both

on the Brother John gravy train.

Wilding Land, Groper’s Water Park

Chuckups PizzaCade – wherever we wanted

to go Brother John would take us

and wait patiently in the car.

Sometimes he’d even give us a few bucks

we could spend on drugs.

I guess Dwayne eventually started

to feel bad so he stopped answering

John’s calls and soon we

lost touch with him completely.

Maybe John had made it his mission

to provide a father figure for Dwayne

or maybe he just wanted to keep

us off the streets.

But either way I think

we were both lucky

to have spent some time

with Brother John

And to not have ended up

in a dungeon somewhere.

No Good Deed

Two veteran inner-city teachers who were competing for a grant to build a youth center in their impoverished district were invited to meet with the Supreme Leader. Over afternoon tea the conversation turned to the funding of their initiatives.

“I know you are a wise man who understands the importance of providing educational opportunities to the under-privileged youth of our great country,” said the first teacher. “By funding our project, you will further enrich your precious memory in the minds of the people, who will sing songs of your generosity for generations to come.”

The Eternal Frontrunner changed the ringtone on his golden smart phone to Number One Favorite K-Pop Hit.

“Stop blowing smoke up his ass,” said the other teacher. “You know as well as I do that he’s a blockhead who understands nothing of the suffering that lies just outside the gates of his palace. He probably has someone tie his shoes for him in the morning.”

Recognizing the brazen spirit in the second teacher’s words, the supreme leader immediately pledged to fully fund her after-school center. Unfortunately, he also decreed that it would instead be a combination Chuck E. Cheese/roller skating rink where he could take the many children he’d had by many wives on Sunday afternoons. Not long after the grand opening the state reneged on its financial commitment and the center became a notorious hot bed of illicit drugs, gang violence, and teen pregnancy before its doors were finally closed for good.

Childish Things

Everybody knew who Luther was

but nobody knew where he came from.

Luther had long, greasy brown hair, wore ripped jeans

and a Maiden shirt, was pretty much already a man.

And if you saw Luther riding his BMX bike

you rode fast in the other direction

because if Luther caught you it was always the same:

“Hey kid, that’s my bike,” he’d say and then steal yours.

One time I saw Luther bunny hop the creek

with some other kid’s bike on his shoulder.

When we started high school Luther switched

his business model and started dealing

turned out he lived with his mom

just on the other side of the park

Tom went there once and Luther took him down

into his basement, which was filled with bike carcasses

looking over the chromoly heap Tom happened to see

his old Hutch racer, its number plate still intact,

which he’d bought with two summer’s worth

of Sunday morning newspaper deliveries

his eyes had welled up and he’d run all the way home

the day it had been stolen out of my backyard.

But Tommy didn’t say anything when he saw

his old friend in that thorny graveyard

those days already seemed long gone

so he just bought his bag and split.

Haiku Corner

Jackass dives off roof

soon fresh stitches ‘neath a paper hat

drive-thru Frankenstein.

Gentleman in mini-van

cheap suit, mutton chops, bouquet

stoplights all wink green.

Weekend survivalist

snorts Percoset, depants frogs

nature’s McNuggets.

Darrell’s momma always said,

“Watch your step, boy, or I’ll kill you

make another looks just like you.”

Kid in Circle K freezer

tried to play skinhead Clay’s

favorite Donkey Kong.

Roderick smiles mouth full

of Elmer’s and pencil shavings

white kids trim paper turkeys.

Hair dryer busted

heat gun tease and feather

hot date in the E.R.

Subway preacher sez

“Thank ya gawd fo yo feet, a hot

butteroll, Baltimore.”

America’s Breakfast Time TV

It’s Halloween and Dick’s drunk again

even though it’s barely 8 a.m.

but he’s a true professional

so he rolls off the Fudgees™ centenarians

without calling anyone a zombie shart

like he does sometimes in the green room

and winks it over to me and

meteorologist Herb Weathers, who’s dressed up

like an overweight Frederick Douglass

and has a young racing fan

from Heehaw, Florida on the hook

outside the studio so he says

in his best Rhett Butler,

“A bit nipply up here north

of the Mason Dixon, in’t ma’am?”

and she’s all, “Sure is Herb!”

so he says “Yet I’ll wager

you’re still wearing flip-flops!?!”

‘cause he knows damn well

she’s wearing flip-flops and

she says “Sure am Herb!” so he says

in this weird baby voice

“Well, show de folks at home

dem pooties den!” and the crowd woots

so she smiles nervously and sticks her foot out

beneath the tourist barrier and Herb says

“Get in tight on the toes, Jimmy,”

so what the hell I go in on her feet

and as I do I hear a low moan

rising up like a squeezed cat

but at least he’s got enough sense

to lower the mic before he whines

“That’s it, give daddy those

trailer park piggly wigglies,”

and the producer is screaming

something in my headphones

but all I can think is

just ‘cause a guy does Jerry’s Kids every year

doesn’t give him the right

to turn America’s breakfast time TV

into his own personal reenactment of

Confederate Wife Foot Fetish 4.

Sky Mall Fight Card

(in the voice of a famous ring announcer)

The Motion Mimicking Robotic Pugilists

The Voice Activated R2-D2

The Remote Controlled Tarantula

The “Keep Your Distance” Bug Vacuum

The Classic Ball Shooting “Burp” Gun

The Automatic Odor Remediator

The Only Exterior Pocket Impervious Carry On

The Only Stainless Steel Wallet

The Gentleman’s Personal Barber

The Best Electronic Pants presser

The World’s Best Prelit Noble Fir

The Harbor Mountain Welded Steel Crib (with cover)

The Feline Rec Room

The Telekinetic Obstacle Course

The Great T-Shirt Fiasco of 1989

One afternoon we hatched

a new plan to get laid:

we’d design and print our own t-shirts

and sell them on the beach

at spring break in Daytona.

So I borrowed a grand from my mom

Mikey bought a truck on credit

and Curtis quit his job at the parking lot.

We packed Curt in the bed of the truck

swaddled in day-glo t-shirts

threw in some beef jerky and fluffernutters

and sealed him beneath a tarp

like a human Elvis sandwich

for the daylong drive.

A hurricane rode us all night

through the hillbilly kingdoms

but the clouds finally parted

as we crossed into the NASCAR state.

We drove straight to the beach

unpacked our dazed partner and wares

and set up a makeshift shop

in the bed of the truck.

We were about to seal our first deal

with some Iowa girls gone wild

when two Bay Watch cops

rolled up on their ATVs

appendages bursting like sausages

from their polyester uniforms.

That was when we learned

that it was a felony to sell

any thing at any time

on the puke-stained beaches of Daytona

without a very rare and very expensive permit

and that if our entrepreneurial spirit

got the better of us again

we’d spend the rest of our spring break

in the Volusia county jail.

Have a nice day.

We decided to regroup at the

Other Shores Senior Center’s

all you could eat breakfast social.

Our new plan was to barter our shirts

for the things we’d intended to use

our profits for, things like

gas, food, beer, lodging.

Curtis started stuffing pancakes

into his pockets.

Over the week we traded

like retarded pilgrims

for twenty-six beers,

half a bucket of chicken,

a Polaroid with Miss Melanoma 1972

and some Mardi Gras beads.

We did not get laid.

Curt said he’d set fire to everything

if we tried to put him in the back again

so we rode silently ass to elbow in the cab

the entire drive home.

After I got back my mom

invited me to spend my weekends

trying to sell the leftover shirts

at the flea market for a dollar each

to earn back some of her money.

I baked in a lot there all summer

but not one of the burned out vets,

commemorative plate hoarding grannies or

familias migrantes at the flea market

showed the least interest in purchasing

a hand-screened spring break t-shirt

with an enormous set of tits on the front.

Lite Bites

Big Bang

Playing great creator

I carelessly toss spitball planets

into orbit around

DeShawn’s afro galaxy

such bright new stars beneath

the basement’s black light heavens.

Dog Logic

I turn my back to fetch

the Aunt Jemima and Ernie

der schweinehund

wolfs down my Saturday morning stack

except for one lonely pancake

carefully left on the plate

in the hope that I won’t notice.

The Gleaners

Mom split town

so we partied all weekend

doing skate tricks in the living room,

carving genitalia into stolen pumpkins

and roasting the seeds to eat

the food money having all been spent

on drugs.

Nicotine Insurance Policy

Always scrapin’, stoner Byron

stubs his Camels out half early

safes ‘em in a mason jar

choice butts for lean times.

Elder Wisdom

Sitting on the dock of the bay

my grandma told me a story

‘bout how she lost her two front teeth

tearing open a package

“they popped right out and went

 ‘plink, plink’ on the ground,” she said

“but them Skittles was worth it.”

Spoiler Alert For A Movie That Isn’t The Movie That Was Made

So I was watching “Far from the Maddening Crowd”

which gets complicated and isn’t about what you’d think.

See we the audience know that Honey Boo Boo or whoever

is supposed to be with hunky farmhand Conan from the get go

but of course she marries the dashing soldier instead

who’s a jerk because he’s really in love with some dumb blonde

who somehow managed to get lost on her way to the alter

to marry him so he drowns himself in the sea.

But them’s just the mini pigs in a blanket

‘cause there’s also this rich, older, boring suitor (wtf is a suitor anyway?)

who’s making the hard play for Honey but she ain’t biting

and he’s starting to crack up. So this suitor decides to throw a deluxe

Christmas shindig for all the dirty townspeople wherein he plans

to finally pop the question. But then the soldier husband shows up

(turns out he was just kidding about the whole drowning thing)

and starts up with the old “bitch better have my money” routine

ruining the whole Christmas miracle thing so the suitor finally loses it and

shoots the soldier dead for real this time.

Cut to Conan and Honey snooping around the locked up suitor’s locked up mansion.

They open up a closet in a mysterious bedroom to find a wardrobe full

of fancy old time lady paraphernalia—corsets and riding boots and frilly bloomers and

whatnot—bodacious jewelry, perfumery, etc, etc.

Then Conan whispers to Honey “If it makes you feel any better

he’ll probably just get a bid what with it being a crime of passion and all,”

at which point I gasp and clutch my purple drank

OMG THE BORING SUITOR WAS ACTUALLY A GAY CROSSDRESSING

QUEEN IN LOVE WITH THE HOT SOLDIER THE WHOLE TIME!!!

But upon rewind, no, it’ turns out the sexy old time clothes etc. were for Honey.

So I guess I’m an airhead just like the blonde fiancée, but you gotta admit

my version of that dumb movie was a lot better than the one they made.

Andre The Giant

Andre The Giant never learned to write music

but nonetheless was an accomplished composer.

In his mind he heard the world’s saddest melodies

but every time he picked up a lute to play them

it turned to dust beneath his fingers.

Andre The Giant once trapped the undefeated

Macho Man Randy Savage in a bear hug.

Just as his foe was losing consciousness

Andre loosed his grip and gently kissed

the Macho Man on his sweaty forehead

for which kindness he received

a pile driver to his solar plexus.

Andre The Giant was once attacked by an angry silverback

while on expedition in Uganda. After he subdued the beast

it followed him through the jungle for two years.

In the evenings Andre would patiently teach

his companion the manual alphabet

the first word the gorilla signed was “friend.”

Andre The Giant’s heart was so big that

one day it finally burst like a supernova.

The bloodthirsty arena fell quiet as Andre’s knees

touched the earth for the first time

and as he expired in his tights

a clutch of sparrows released from his mane.

At his funeral, the Federation of Little Wrestlers

spirited his body away from the state proceedings

and buried him instead in a solemn ceremony

at the foot of an ancient oak tree.

The Tao That Can Be Told

An initiate sought to learn the ways of an enigmatic master who was known only as WIZ. So one day after school he climbed to the top of Alameda Boulevard and waited in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven the master was known to frequent. After some time a young man rode up on a BMX bicycle with “WIZ” ironed on his t-shirt. Realizing this must be the fabled sage the acolyte approached.

“Master,” he said, “for long have I struggled to transcend the eight worlds and 32 subtle levels of Supa Mario Burazazu, yet always I lose my last life before securing the honor of a high score. I have come to ask you to show me the cheats, Easter eggs, and warps I require to complete my quest and brag about it in home room.”

WIZ stroked the sparse hairs that had recently begun to sprout from his supple chin. At last he answered in the form of a poem:

There is but one true path

Through the Mushroom Kingdom

to defeat the fiery turtle boss Bowser

and liberate the princess of your mind.

Secure a roll of silver

from your senile aunt Ollie

and take the M24 bus to Crossroads Mall.

Be not tempted by movieplex or food court

seek only the dank cavern of the Arcade Zone

and there meditate one pointedly

upon joystick and jump button

starman and fire flower

until you are free from

even that which you seek.

The master then entered the convenience store to get a slushy.

It is said that the young disciple achieved enlightenment the very next day and that his own high score initials became known throughout the suburbs.

Father’s Day

I thought I heard Diego say

he’d grown up en un cave

which might’ve explained why

he didn’t know how to ride a bike,

but not why Peanut brought him along

to our Saturday ride.

So I hauled my old bone shaker

out of the basement and we all three

headed to the park.

Diego’s training wheels –

that being me and Peanut –

buckled under his weight

as he struggled like a nervous Weeble

to perch himself on the saddle.

Our pedagogy took shape quickly:

“pedal fast”, “keep your balance” and

“don’t look down.” Peanut’s handlebar

mustache wilted in the sun.

By this time a crowd of children

on skates, scooters, boards and of course bikes

had gathered to gawk at us.

“Hey, how old is that fat kid?” they said,

“He’s gonna break his fool neck!”

“Don’t listen to them, Diego,” we grunted

as we nudged him forward from behind

our strange human locomotive

setting forth on its maiden voyage.

At the crucial moment we gave Diego

a hopeful push and released him

from our nurturing nest

to ride freely upon the wind.

“Go, Diego, go!!!”

We watched as Diego rode a bike for the very first time

for almost two full seconds before he listed

like an oil tanker in a tsunami

and capsized into the patchy grass.

“Dios mio,” Diego said meekly as he

brushed himself off and righted his spectacles

“No, no es bueno…”

Suddenly anxious to see our fledgling take flight

we began regurgitating encouragement

“Not bad for a first try!” “You’re a natural!”

“Here’s your other shoe.”

Like a bad dress rehearsal we re-enacted

this same scene over and again

for the next two hours

until, exhausted, we had no choice but to admit

there would be no opening night performance.

Peanut felt bad because Diego

had skinned his knee so we had pie

at the coffee shop and then

bought him a new pair of skinny jeans.

I was relieved when we finally put

Diego on the subway back to South America –

he’d been a lot of responsibility.

But, as the train pulled away,

I also felt a keen sense of failure

like a straight-up hustler on Jerry Springer

when he hears, “Short Dogg, you ARE the father!”

and as the audience woots and hollas

he realizes he’s completely unprepared

to teach his illegitimate, foreign-tongued, twenty-something gaby

how to ride a bicycle.

How to Regain Control of Runaway Things

Keep the animals and acrobats out

of the tiny car’s path and go on with the show.

Once the clowns have exited and are in the ring,

sing “Vesti la Giubba” through a bullhorn

until they fall asleep.

Musical numbers that spill out onto the streets

of metropolitan areas can be dangerous

and cause gridlock. Seek high ground

(a fire escape or atop a taxicab)

and initiate an instrumental break using

some impromptu steps. Once you’ve captured

the troupe’s attention, use jazz hands or

low-down finger snaps to lead them

safely into the nearest gymnasium.

Goths can seem intimidating because

they look and smell different,

but like most animals they don’t like

having their noses rubbed in their own filth.

Give the dungeon master a titty twister

and then tell your little brother that if he and his

Faggot McElfkin friends don’t get out of the family room

you’re going to turn Narnia or whatever

into a world of pain. Turn on the game and wait

for the little shitstains to leave.

Berserkers, gimps, and buffoons

all respond to small animals with wonder and curiosity.

Preoccupy them with the nearest kitten

or stuffed wombat and re-secure the shackles.

Tell the sister-wives you’re going

to Sam’s Club for another gross of diapers.

Exit the compound and hightail it to for Salt Lake.

Once in the Emerald City, secure a job

as a bootlegger or tranny to conceal your identity.

Simply never tell the child the word “peekabo.”

Shank

My fancy rawhide boots have twin lone stars

and crow that they’re airport friendly

‘cause they don’t have a steel shank

for a backbone.

But what consolation is convenience

deep in these savage latitudes

where the heart of the agave is wrung dry

until the Sierra Madre spirits dance

and you’d cut the very six guns from your skin

for any piece of Paloma, the campesino’s daughter

her thoroughbred ass breaking from its nylon tethers

as she shines the pole before the cock fight.

Because, you see, sometimes a man could use a little support

like when he wakes to a high desert sun

splintering off el capítan’s matins stick

and he knows there ain’t no pin-tailed stewardesses

at the end of a Rio Grande line up.

The Siege of the Sandlot

No one was sure how it started

but every day at lunch our gang, the DC

(Devil’s Children) would line up on the playground

opposite the rest of Troy Elementary’s fifth grade boys

to play the ball game.

Somebody would lob a tennis ball at the other side

and a petit-point hell would be unleashed.

There was only one rule to the ball game:

get the ball and keep it on your team.

Tackling, punching, tripping

and occasionally biting other children

were the preferred strategies.

Chipped teeth, black eyes, and countless

bruises, knots, and raspberries

filled the hallways as our noonday battle

raged through the fall.

Though he was short, Glen was the toughest kid

in our army. But Glen had troubles at home

and even when he was at school he wouldn’t play

the ball game—he’d just stand on the sidelines

leaning against a tetherball pole

staring up at the sky.

Blake, the preppie’s golden boy,

had wings on his sneakers.

If Blake got the ball he’d just elude everybody

until we wore out and fell to shouting

half-empty threats until the bell rang.

Then one day the god’s intervened

and guided clumsy Billy Naylor out of the path

of Blake’s well-thrown dodge ball

which then struck Glen on the side of his head

messing up his carefully folded bandana.

That lunchtime Glen brooded as usual

until Blake got the ball, at which point he

rushed onto the field and gave chase

kicking up dust like a denim-clad tank.

Knowing the score, the rest of us

stopped to watch Blake elude Glen

until for some reason he just stopped running

at the far corner of the schoolyard.

Glen caught his breath, then closed in.

Blake said something, but he was too far away.

There was a brief struggle

before he got him in a headlock

and delivered one solid blow to the face.

Blake fell to his knees, his nose spouting blood

Glen walked through the south gate

headed toward the Elyria Houses.

Soon Christmas time rolled around

and after the break we forgot all about the ball game.

Our small kingdom was peaceful for many days

all the way until the snows melted

and then we started playing something called “Thunderdome”

beneath the monkey bars.

Inglorious Bronies

There was once a tribe of men called “bronies” who worshiped a mythical race of small, colorful ponies. The bronies followed closely the innocent adventures of their beloved fillies, which took place in a magical, far away land, and learned from them lessons of friendship and caring. Every year the men would hold a grand convention where they would dress up as their favorite pony characters – who had names like Lickerish Crumpet and Twink Merkin – share fan art of their idols, and celebrate the bonds of friendship.

Though the bronies insisted their motives were pure, many in the cynical society around them suspected something about them wasn’t quite right. “It’s plain unnatural for grown men to take an interest in little girl stuff,” said one philandering lawmaker. “Our church is skeptical of tiny ponies and creepy bronies,” a closeted Scientologist decried on a popular talk show.

The bronies began to worry about their public image, even for their safety. How could they convince their neighbors and co-workers they weren’t freaks or weirdos – that they only wanted to share the message of good will and friendship?

In one pony tale, Peenie Nubbins used the Power of Believing to catch a rainbow, cure Turtle of his secret shame and win the Tickle Cream Derby. At that year’s convention the bronies decided to see if, like Peenie, they too could harness the power of sincerity to make something special happen: to bring their magical friends to life.

And amazingly, it worked! For the first time ever the bronies and ponies were united in the real world.

Unfortunately, the ponies also believed the bronies were in fact depraved, and they began a brutal war of friendship on all humankind. Many shocking atrocities were committed during the course of the sticky struggle. Eventually, at the battle of Poundcake Junction, the ponies used pixie dust to ensleepen the resistance, and the unicorn brigade reamed mankind once and for all.

The new pony overlords saved their harshest punishments for their old friends the bronies, who they enslaved. Every day the brony slaves were made to dress up in furry suits and perform humiliating morality plays for their pony masters, whose final acts contained scenes of such debauch they would’ve brought a blush to Caligula’s cheek.

And that’s why we have to go to work today.