Friday, February 22, 2008


Wet raveled t-shirts whip the backs of boys in chaotic locker room hurricanes that lead to punches after the shirts unravel; fighting words

leap, as the wet tip licks a dot on the back and a jolt of painful pleasure surges. Painful because it hurts, but full of pleasure, because you know you

deserve it. Just like the dinners when you say what your parents don’t want to hear, or drunks misunderstanding worried words to try and help;

a fist is the answer, a punch here and there or an unraveled diary, its fibers distorting after school activities and screaming your hidden thoughts

through tangled subjects and predicates high school English teachers would love to dissect and place in poetry contests to somehow put