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Some Say He Carries A Razor

His hair went curly when it grew out, turned grey at the ends but when he easy hairdos for long hair for school kept it tight in August, he appeared a little bit 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 shop, scored on a wire, no prices, no price just a conversation and a handshake: “go down to little Armenia, and do a small favor me.” A phone call on a cold cellphone three in the morning, a favor leaving cops scratching their heads, going blind by the gang information tryin to figure who wished that guy dead.

He is the starkest chapter in a stoics novel and you can almost hear a Mofro sax in his opiated cough. He’s carrying jeans, and a thread bare flanel shirt crimson and black cityscape tartan. Streets, operating parallel to crossing avenues, boulevards across the collar. Jesus Christ, he’s sexy.

A black string tied around a mystery runs below 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 Others say it’s a CN Conductor’s watch that he picked up from a junk shop the place his outdated man used to hock trinkets for dollars and dollars for whiskey.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. But he never gave his previous man much thought, spent less time on himself, not even the writer knew that much about him, maybe they’d nod in passing, passing each other on pages, bumping into one another originally of a chapter. The writer beloved him, he made the writer’s mind, soul and cock arduous watching how he moved; like a pocket knife unfolds itself, stiff, sharp, ready, wary. His glasses had been someplace between Costello and Orbison and his mood depended on if the hotel had a diner or if the bastards made him stroll downtown.

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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kiss was beneath a full moon in October on a blacktop close to Gainesville where tires smoked out quarter-miles like outdated time daddies easy hairdos for long hair for school in maternity ready rooms. The kiss tasted like cheap 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.

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