three point eight square miles
measured upon recent inspection:
An elaborate ruse wherein a group of five cousins proceed to local rural school for free summer lunches, picking up other cousins on the way. Elaborate ruse used to ensure second set of children eat something "decent." The maneuver provides two things: long thin hot dogs served with generic and bitter ketchup; no prideful rage provoked. The ammonia scented man stays plastered against the fake wood paneling of his bedroom. Not at work on the night shift, not asleep.
That sad cowboys mustache you used to cover the gaunt bones of your face. As if we wouldn't know, this man who played me Luke Skywalker albums, who bounced across my living room to Living Colour. You of all people wearing that redneck chops stache. Everyone smiling through their mashed potatoes. You were only there a moment and so I did not have time to laugh.
My brothers guilty looks, eyes darting. How can he say what he knows without telling me what he's done. Even now he is a boy wonderer, so eager to follow you past the limits drawn for us. You promised him adventures -- cross bows, automatic weapons, pornography, all those big boy games. He can't imagine you wrong. Holding it out in front of me the new toys. Ice, crank, ghb, formaldehyde dips. The promise of all those broken teeth.
Older recollection:
You kept numchucks in your top most drawer. Folded your white outfit meticulously. Flipped us smaller kids onto the dirty mattresses grandma kept piled in the basement. I landed nose down and lay still, sniffing the aging urine there. How exciting to fly, to be looked at sternly by you. Ka-yah.
You would let me steer your run-down red fiat down the hill while you pushed until the engine caught. Then you would climb over the trunk and I would dodge under your legs so you could drive. You let me sit on the back, arms up, free to fall if I was dumb enough, free to ride along if I was smart enough to stay quiet. That car always died as soon as it would be a pain in the ass to walk back.
An elaborate ruse wherein a group of five cousins proceed to local rural school for free summer lunches, picking up other cousins on the way. Elaborate ruse used to ensure second set of children eat something "decent." The maneuver provides two things: long thin hot dogs served with generic and bitter ketchup; no prideful rage provoked. The ammonia scented man stays plastered against the fake wood paneling of his bedroom. Not at work on the night shift, not asleep.
That sad cowboys mustache you used to cover the gaunt bones of your face. As if we wouldn't know, this man who played me Luke Skywalker albums, who bounced across my living room to Living Colour. You of all people wearing that redneck chops stache. Everyone smiling through their mashed potatoes. You were only there a moment and so I did not have time to laugh.
My brothers guilty looks, eyes darting. How can he say what he knows without telling me what he's done. Even now he is a boy wonderer, so eager to follow you past the limits drawn for us. You promised him adventures -- cross bows, automatic weapons, pornography, all those big boy games. He can't imagine you wrong. Holding it out in front of me the new toys. Ice, crank, ghb, formaldehyde dips. The promise of all those broken teeth.
Older recollection:
You kept numchucks in your top most drawer. Folded your white outfit meticulously. Flipped us smaller kids onto the dirty mattresses grandma kept piled in the basement. I landed nose down and lay still, sniffing the aging urine there. How exciting to fly, to be looked at sternly by you. Ka-yah.
You would let me steer your run-down red fiat down the hill while you pushed until the engine caught. Then you would climb over the trunk and I would dodge under your legs so you could drive. You let me sit on the back, arms up, free to fall if I was dumb enough, free to ride along if I was smart enough to stay quiet. That car always died as soon as it would be a pain in the ass to walk back.
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