View single post by timmy
 Posted: Tue Jun 26th, 2007 03:52 pm
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Joined: Fri Jun 9th, 2006
Location: Oz, Minnesota USA
Posts: 1084
a person lived here once i see him
in a picture from 1968
he has wild hair
his arms flail in air

his third grade report card
is in a bottem drawer
“Buddy is regressing” it reads

i hand it to him & ask if he wants
to keep it, his mother must have
to prove she had a son

his eyes say yes though
his mouth says “pitch it”
along with his stepfather’s
WWII burial flag

i place the report card on the table next
to his cigarettes, the twice filled ashtray
and a yellow bag of M & M’s

there are two empty tuna cans
this morning, they weren’t there
yesterday, the bag of food i left is full

his mother’s name was Polly
she rose and died in 1989
no mention of where
she’s buried even though i ask

she might be in the walls

i threw out his leather coat yesterday,
spiders were living in the pockets,
enjoying themselves in his leather pockets

Buddy tells me he is fucking mad
about the coat, tells me the .38 revolver
in the pocket is now gone and what
is he going to do when strangers come
in the night to claim his bones

i tell Buddy about the spiders,
how they lived in his leather pockets
Buddy says to hell with you
I’m gunless now & another sword
of civilization has cut my trust
with him

i tell myself i will keep trying:
i leave another sandwich, a bag of yellow
cellophane potato chips

the next morning a possum is in Buddy’s
closet trying to live

i throw out the possum, he of skinny tail,
by the tail, its red eyes screaming at me
with hate, with the rest of Buddy’s things:

glassware, tax returns from 1983, screwdrivers,
a jar of mayonnaise

everything goes into the dumpster, sitting like
a tar pit in his driveway, everything Buddy has
ever known will soon be sealed within its pitch:

toxic, highly-flammable, a perfect color