Nothing

11/5/90

There’s nothing

To do here

Sh_t gets stuck

To my shoes

This soil not

mixed with

The ash of

My ancestors

It was time

To begin, you

can’t package

That, give it

Back, f_ck

Off, sorry.

An Ode to Bruce Lee

and other stories

I coughed twice —

then remember.

When Arnold was

a boy his father gave

him a road-cone. He

said:

“I’ve got something

to show you. Come.”

He took his hands

out of his pockets

and opened the door

for his boy.

“Look,” he said

“there, by the car!”

It was a red, shiny

road-cone. Maybe it

was a bit scratched and

scraped, but it was

practicly new. Little Arnold’s

eyes became bright and

greedy.

“I ran it over with

my car this afternoon.

I drove with it under

for two and one-half

hours, all the way

home. You can have it

if you want.”

Little Arnold ran up to

the cone. He sniffed it

with his little brown

nose, and grabbed it

with his little brown

hands,

“Daddy,” he said,

“This plastic is so

soft and rubbery,”

He didn’t have to

say thank you, he ran

inside instead; a new toy.

Lemmy spat.

He watched the flem

spatter against the sidewalk

and sat down on the

front stoop of the house.

Dr. Parsons walked

by.

“Hello Dr. Parsons,” said

Lemmy.

“Hello Lemmy,” said

Dr Parsons, “Found

any work yet?”

asked Dr. Parsons.

“No, not yet, sir.” replied

Lemmy.

“Well, keep trying boy,

I know you’ll find

something somewhere.”

Lemmy was a white

boy, with red hair,

a blue baseball cap,

buck teeth, freckles,

overalls, a crewcut,

too skinny, tall,

brown dusty loafers.

“Bye Dr. Parsons,”

said Lemmy.

“Bye Lemmy,” said

Dr. Parsons.