Seventeen Debris and Saturday Gray
You learn the hard way sometimes. Seventeen’s a long way down. Never told me. Winding and neverminding. Knee high and ankling. That Saturday Jenny offered she was fetter to the fool. Shoulda known my breath would taste like her–my wrists and ankles bruised and bleeding. I came back. Saturday. And we lost off again. We let fortune find itself to tend each other up the way. We’d fend it off with feeble wings. Defiant glances.
And we burned stasis on our skin with mouths just outside of squeaking distance–blue-gray field of smoke and broken mirrors. These frailty bags of swishing plastic. Full of justifications and weighing nothing. Helium bound in Wal-Mart sacks. Low prices and high risers, rolling back the afternoon of something borrowed, something balloon.
It feels like you’re flying when you’re falling upside down.
‘Least that explains the headaches.
Looks just like you’re praying as you’re diving to the ground.
‘Splains the barkin’ dogs.
Semi-human missile whistle
We never did wear a new pair of sneakers. Shame. Our feet were so rubber and plastic. Our necks were so gold. Our cheeks were soft and yummy tummy. We never did grow old.
And Saturday they haloosed. The bets came off. The fine caboosed. The mild slice of sometimes pie times somewhat neither. Blind for an eye. The seeper of the crumbs and crust. Because the big screen. Because we bull steam.
Because we caught. Because we must.
Then you keep on jawing about something seize the day. Then Saturday. Saturday. Saturdee-da-day.