I don’t like to call myself a Road Rager. I would rather the open road. I prefer the white, fluffy clouds and bright blue sky. Empty pavement. Instead, I get the blaring headlights and the cars swerving into the opposite lane just to cut me off. All I want is to get from Point A to Point B. That’s it. No headaches. But I seem to dance at least with one, if not two, on my way to work and on my way home.
Jack Daniels speaks to the broken hearted girl with bright blue eyes and natural red hair—
Face as empty as an alcoholic’s shot glass.
She’s watching, waiting for the bartender to fill her glass to the brim,
Willing to pay him extra for a couple free drinks—
Not with the money she doesn’t have but with
The lips she knows how to use,
The thong she knows how to pull aside, and the
Chitter chatter and poisonous banter
Of young bloods trapped in a room.
A vigorous flutter of papers and pens
Night market like theater foyer:
Booths, display tables, counters.
Christmas tree starlight winks.
Synthetic rose-cut, baguette-cut,
Navette-cut stones set in artificial
Silver and gold for the neck, ears,
An orange light peaks through the window
Hatefully greets another day.
He pulls the red sleeping bag over his head
Wishing this nausea would subside.
When I first saw you, you were
a half-erased sketch
in a wheelchair that could have
fit your thighs four times over.
The smudges of charcoal wavered in a
along the outline of your veins.
The television set was black. The remote rested in the teacher’s hand. The project was simple. The students went to work, and most of the footage shown was humorous. Some of it was stupid. Nobody would remember it. They would only remember her.
She had walked down the hallway with the boy and girl. The girl called the shots. The heavy camera rested on her shoulder. The boy was eager, awaiting direction, and she poked her head into the passing classrooms, looking for the perfect spot.
Would you let me fall
Would you be ok if I just drifted
Would you be fine with me gliding
So slowly so very very slowly
That I would escape the feelings of gravity
That for a brief moment
That for a brief sensation
I would be suspend neither falling nor flying
Just the rush in my soul
Superman stole my jelly roll.
He took it right out of my lunch bag then sat next to me.
“Superman, that’s mine,” I said.
“Sorry, toots,” he said. He halved my jelly roll then pulled a pack of Decade Red out of his sleeve, lazer-visioned a cherry onto on of the cigarettes, and then he killed it in a single breath.
“You can’t smoke in the lunchroom, Superman.”
I lay on my unmade bed and admired all the women tacked to the wall. Over three years, I’d been adding one after another. Currently, I boasted over fifty drawings, pegged to my wall in stacked rows of ten each. Gary wasn’t being fair when he teased me about drawing the entire female faculty. I sometimes drew women that weren’t teachers. One drawing was of my mother, another of Aunt Suzanne, and another of the Hospice nurse who stayed with my grandmother during her final days. The youngest woman was still well into her thirties. Young faces never interested me.