Jimmy and the Train There were three of us. Jimmy, David, and me, who sat in back of the class, stoned and acid buzzed, seeing visions of nothing. I wanted to be a poet, or a rock star. David wanted to be an artist. Jimmy wanted to be dead. I swear that was his goal. “I’ll never live past thirty anyway, so fuck it.” We used to drink Boone’s farm by the railroad tracks, and when a train came howling around the curve we would stand between the rails, and give the engineer the bird. At the last minute we would duck out of the way. David always moved first, then me, then Jimmy. Jimmy would wait until the headlight singed his hair. Crazy fuck. We would laugh and drink more. David died in a car wreck. Jimmy didn’t die. He’s almost 40. I still want to be a poet. Cicada The night he died I was living in a cabin in the woods. Isolated, and without electricity, or phone cords, I was teaching myself guitar by firelight. 18 years old, I was strong and without fear, this was before life & time kicked my ass. Before the universe conspired against me. Before I conspired against myself. A knock sounded at the door. My cousin telling me that I needed to call my father, but would not, or could not, tell me why. In darkness I ran to the country store, and used the pay-phone. My father answered with voice sounding cracked and ancient. “Your brother had an accident.” “Is he alright?” “No.” “Is he dead?” “Yes.” Like a bad actor, I dropped the phone and sat hard in the dust. The Cicadas were singing, what seemed to me, the saddest song. This life would never be the same.
Birthday Wishes Once, long ago, she asked what I wanted for my birthday. “Anal sex,” I replied as a joke, kind of. “Maybe,” she said and laughed, kind of. I think she gave me a book. It was kind of disappointing.
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