French and I were shooting a few hoops last night. Part way through a game of American 21 (gritty game) French says: "Seen your fucking blog". There was a pause. He drove past me and threw down a dunk (net was at nine feet) and said: "fucking like it". Moments later he handed me his journal and said: "use this".
It was literally covered sweat, rain, blood and beer stains. I flipped to a poem. There were drops of blood on the page. He saw my reaction and said: "It makes it more authentic; poetry is experiential". I can't argue with that. I read the poem.
duct tape n'cardboard
covering the glass
smashed with bloody fists
with the loss of a girl
garbage cans
set ablaze
smoldering outside
the gym
heads broken
on locker doors
a glorious week
of school
French waited 'til I was done: "Remember that week? That was a good one".
5 comments:
had an acquaintance who liked to light up garbage cans along the walk home after a night of drinking -- almost led the cops right to my front door
Dox and I left a few trails of destruction. The teenage mind is dangerous.
OO
Wow, didn't know French had such a way with words. A poem that comes from a gritty heart that rubs his rusty soul like sandpaper and course steel. You got one complicated character going. Keep it up.
French is like an old busted up soldier that becomes a Zen master. A country road fist-fighter that just wants to be a quiet old chicken farmer. A work boot poet.
HP
FL - SQ - HP: you know him well.
OO
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