Contiguous thought dribbles the mind
down, out. Pouring over an evening
Friday sure and released, the students
call curtly, smugly contagious,
knotted in jibe as the blacks behind Jax
Liquors sipping incognito, or thought so. Relaxed,
they deliberately don't school but mingle
as the images highlighted in textbooks to be
tossed. Frothing, spilling, their libated selves
bubble, finding themselves in suds and reality
that Mom and Dad could never imagine excepting
that they, too, partied. In coherent
skins until dark and the whites come out
among the other things and stick, clinging
as bent and twisted pine needles matted
the sap long gone


and tacky, the blurbs of entropy I
witness on such nights with screaming Michelin's
playing into the hands of Physics;
an eight year olds' playing has more purpose
and foresight: grown-ups
look stupid
doing this. I'm probably the same
in their eyes, white, yellow, both going
towards red, or black. Out
there, though, the cries still carry
to me and beyond when
the so in 'so what' still figured so
strong and meaningful, embellished by
growing and what's not,
was to come and end up in a parking lot
in a serene bucket of fake flake. Metallic
cars all hyped up
on petrol, just waiting to be spent on the opposite gender,
clinging like the tire size signifying
the balls of the owner somewhere imagined
just below the loose and flowered boxers
baggy, quelled by the socialization.
They don't deserve to think like that, projecting
a happy, drunken group of non-men, nebulizing
with nubile and barely stretched girls,
flesh flushed, extremely wet. Lips
not parted or even going to be
unless science and hormones and entropy takes
over. Barreled throttle and clutching
into the third lane for power. Played,
teased into saliva when
all they really wanted was to
belong, Jockey shorts and limply
willing to learn


that commas and comas are mutually exclusive whether you grew up
singly with selfish brothers and sisters who reminded
you of all that you didn't have,
or if you were plural as an only
child between your drunk and bitter parents
who fought over who you took
after. The question didn't matter because
the tears and bottled, bursting overheard
beers overhead and the high speed antics
of shiny, racing sculptures that replaced
the moment with sound and fury and someone's fun


was all that was
what they were after, enigmatic pulsing, proving
entropy was the first, last and third law
of thermodynamics just like the blacks in their brown


papers sacks curled and rolling
at the bottleneck mouths you sipped
as when you decided to join. Them
and their ways didn't and now don't really
matter much as long as the job
gets done and the next Friday promises
a new girl or jockey—
shorted fellow who came before
he got them off anyway. As your Mom
said you Dad did in a fit of anger
and jealousy when finally drowned by passion
at the roaring engine and wet lips. Pursed
around the container, but never


in where it should be according to the seasoned. Athlete
who spawned you and told you to be better at it,
never mentioning what it was
there was to be better
at. At least this time the light was green
or if it was red the police might be the ones
behind it all and then you'd be
just one more. Needle beneath the conifer,
caught in the family sap.