Some Say He Carries A Razor
His hair went curly when it grew out, turned gray at the ends but when he stored it tight in August, he looked somewhat younger. His footsteps echo straight time, a pared down rhythm like an Anthony Cole equipment: snare, kick, and three cymbals scored from some gulag trying pawn store, scored on a wire, no costs, no fee only a dialog and a handshake: “go down to little Armenia, and do a small favor me.” A telephone name on a cold cellphone three in the morning, a favor leaving cops scratching their heads, going blind via the gang recordsdata tryin to determine who wished that man useless.
He’s the starkest chapter in a 22 in extensions stoics novel and you’ll virtually hear a Mofro sax in his opiated cough. He’s 22 in extensions wearing jeans, and a thread bare flanel shirt pink and black cityscape tartan. Streets, working parallel to crossing avenues, boulevards across the collar. Jesus Christ, he’s sexy.
A black string tied round a thriller runs underneath his cheese cloth undershirt. Some say he carries a razor, or a dime on that string. Others say it’s a CN Conductor’s watch that he picked up from a junk store the place his outdated man used to hock trinkets for dollars and dollars for whiskey.
His father flushing years and self loathing, down within the “detritice” of a shitty tavern’s nicely rye. However he by no means gave his old man a lot thought, spent much less time on himself, not even the author knew that much about him, possibly they’d nod in passing, passing one another on pages, bumping into each other firstly of a chapter. The author liked him, he made the author’s thoughts, soul and cock onerous watching how he moved; like a pocket knife unfolds itself, stiff, sharp, prepared, cautious. His glasses have been someplace between Costello and Orbison and his temper depended on if the resort had a diner or if the bastards made him walk downtown.
His first kiss was beneath a full moon in October on a blacktop close to Gainesville where tires smoked out quarter-miles like outdated time daddies in maternity waiting rooms. The kiss tasted like low cost wine, bubble gum and creosote. She never closed her eyes. It’s a kiss he’s been chasing ever since, so that even now he tosses straight dice with crooked hips, lips and limbic mantras chasing The sublime. Chasing the sublime.