First Date

Our first date was a late afternoon walk through orange sidewalks and autumn temples and you were dressed like a fast burning memory. Red means red, turquoise means both rings and jingle jangle hair means faultless flawed gazing at easy teeth. Broke and confident, broke and cloaked in fraud, broke and stumbling on a free walk and nothing bought comes close. Old, cold sidewalks from distant dreams left unnoticed and there’s nothing but quick empty walks with pretty girls who laugh at marijuana birthdays and skeleton peepholes. I’m sweaty and can’t remember a word I’ve said and I remember it all, every sneaky glance at the curve of your strut and the wham boom buzz of heart pang adolescence and I wouldn’t miss any of it, not even for more.

Obituary

Three days ago I was diagnosed with lung cancer, an unfortunate set of news that, while not unexpected, is certainly disappointing. Late last night, unable to doze off like I normally would, I decided to jot down my own obituary. After all, obituaries are often gray and dreary and impersonal, and who better to write about my life than me? After all, I was there.

Thomas Eugene Hinde is born on March 7th, 1948 in Illinois to Nathan and Katie Hinde. They name me Tom after an old friend and let me sleep on their mattress until I’m two years old. Dad buys me a football and tells Mom I’ll play quarterback someday. Mom serves pink lemonade and lets me stay up until the late night news is over. I turn six and choose basketball over football. My dad is just happy I like sports.

In third grade I draw a portrait of my family that my Mom hangs on the fridge. They tell me I’m an artist and that I can play with the gods if I want to. I don’t know what they mean but I feel loved.

Middle school is a mad blur of red-faced dances and ratty desks, and I turn thirteen on a Tuesday. Mom and Dad take me out for Mexican and I take my picture with a black sombrero. They buy me a Playstation and tell me they’re proud. I feel old, but safe.

High school comes and there are girls everywhere. Alissa Harris has soft brown hair that flows past her shoulders and I love her more than my parents could ever realize. Alissa’s mother drives us to and from the movies, where we hold hands and eat Sour Patch Kids and kiss like we know what we’re doing. After Alissa there’s Aubrie, then Catherine, then Lauren. But Alissa is the first, and brunettes will always have an edge.

When I’m twenty-two I move into that old brick empire on North Pine. There, Candy and I spend our nights reading Kerouac under bright orange embers and honey green tea. She bakes pumpkin bread and takes long bubble baths. I fall in love with the absurdity of our luck and offer her a silver ring in exchange for more. We soon have two children, Sofia and Norah, and I have never known so much beauty.

When I’m seventy-three I stop breathing – too much wear and tear. From empty beginning to natural end, I dance with my eyes open, hungry.

Jesus Christ

Money tears and designer problems, a jumbled pile of steaming idiocy and you don't even smell it. Cut it with a knife - use your sword and hack everything you can't see. If you're gonna cry over spilled debt, take off those camo pants first.

Sunbeam Heroes

Our real heroes were born in the dank musty dark of banjo barn rooms, rested in hay and dirt and whiskey sweat. They grew up on old wooden porches with tall pretty mothers in sundresses and gin and tonic. They played harmonica and explored the rivers and tripped on slip sliding rocks, all in the buff and with a gusto we can only hope to imagine. They started fires with their cocks and played cards with their chests, eyes flying to the beat of billowing smoke and more of that harmonica. Swimming on their backs in dry heat summer they raised you and I to feel it all the same.

No – better.

They fought and clawed and fucked and went through all of it just so we could taste it ourselves, and thank emptiness. Shadowy fall is in full effect now and kids are in the other room necking and if anyone just gave pause and thought it over, everything I’ve said would make sense and we could talk. This isn’t to say what you’ve read is good writing, or even worth your time. But it would make sense, so who cares?

On and On

Tears spit pussy leaves green smoke glass shout fuck we everything nothing meaning all the time.