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Show Go Love/139 How you can picture a shape, say a bread bag, give it a volume, say half a gallon, then a substance, say pig shit; concentrate on your shape, volume, substance long enough and you can make any thought disappear One of his students killed him, just walked into his office and fired a pistol into his head first week of school So fuck shape, volume, substance. Vent air is chill in my face My mind, the phrases strong stomach makes conversation with scalded and dumb truckdriver. A monkey-bent man buffs a black limousine under the funeral home drive-through. O W kills his tmck on the black asphalt painted with yellow lines. I know in my heart that my mother's dead. For some reason I think of Shawn Terrence Lord, Mama's lover from the campaign trail-I don't know why. O W.'d shit, or maybe he knew-all that time on the road to puzzle through This is where they brought Jimmy, where they rebuilt his face for the open casket funeral Somebody stole the Senior ring and Rolex off his big left hand. Man, what I'd give to go back before all that, be sixteen and head over Missy Clark's and smoke sensimilla hooter and jump all day on the trampoline in her back yard, her big bouncy cheerleader titties going in semi-circles Or just haul off and beat the shit out of the cocksuck who told Mama we couldn't move in, our stuff already at the front door, him going on with that nasty little rat dog with its pink dick laying on his arm The man polishing the limo is a dead-ringer for a chimpanzee, the curl in his back and the dark brown hair growing right up his shoulders and neck, polishing a car the deep purple or a crow's wing. I'm thinking about Shawn Terrence Lord-by no choice of my own. 0 W.'s driven us here with the air on high, c.b. chattering and the midget t.v. playing One Life to Live All those years ago, after the truck rolled up hill, he'd let me believe that he was a warlock, that |
