the day he wore a blue polo
i pointed my finger
at the fat kid and said
you know, like the giant turtle cartoon—
turtle cartoon on tv.
then I heard five laughing voices,
fireworks crackling fetid:
the five guys on the bench.
my wit won me an evening with them,
because the five guys on the bench–
from whose ears cigarette smoke rose like a holiday of cool,
whose nostrils had been mines for mermaid tongues,
whose throats teemed with the wooly leftovers of pleased pussies,
whose pockets shelved in crumpled nooks
the clavicles of attractive women,
the teeth of all the Jeremies–
they knew a good metaphor when they heard one.
and i, little pube, sat
that evening on the bench
with those who oozed salubria and labia,
who had known the wet taste of sprouted nipple,
whose faces were made of ash and hickeys and sexy unhappiness,
who shouted in cannonball spurts,
and laughed like that
our mouths would not finish until we had raped all the world’s oxygen.
which is to say, our cackles were unapologetically genocidal.
the equation was simple enough:
the smoke of our laughter made the day rain
and we would not stop
until the rain turned into acid