My girlfriend Molly drives because she gets the least drunk. We drive to the city to visit the bars. We usually do shots for good luck. It’s 45 minutes to get down there. We don’t do it much.
We used to have some outbuildings on my grandma’s property, one where I fixed mowers with my uncle before he died. I started to hate him once he got sick. AIDS is a selfish disease. At his funeral, some people didn’t even come by. They thought it was catching.
Well, I grew up in my grandma’s house and she’s still my best friend. She doesn’t like the tattoos. She doesn’t understand me at all, never does. She’s the only one I still talk to.
I’ve always liked motors, vehicles, mechanics, trucks. I know how to run all this metal bull, these trojan horses. I’m a metalhead, a real one. I’ve been growing my hair since middle school, wet and tight in a band at the nape of my neck. They used to make fun of me, but I’ve been lifting weights, I’ve been shooting guns; now I can take anyone.
hat hair whiskey breath
black truck yelled
loud voice taking
closed eyes took
quick friends learned
guitar shred rural boy
grassed past country
Most times I don’t even remember the weekend come Monday. But I make do. You’re asking about Saturday? What are you talking about. I know what dykes do. I know how queers work. They’ll steal whatever they want from you. They’ll seduce Molly, make her leave too. So yeah, I yelled “dykes” out the window. I try to intimidate them whenever I see them. Who’s keeping track. I’ve got my own score to settle.