13: k.k., 2004
i had to leave after we exchanged friendship necklaces;
various colors of semi-precious and common stones; quartz, amethyst, ruddy dirty tiger’s eye, cheap crystals shined pretty on cord.
it was your birthday; you picked loyalty and then we all sat down to watch the three stooges, the first time the humor just
i was never one for all the pie in the face, two by four to the jaw type of thing, i guess at least not until later on in life
when violence metastasized into the erotic and the lines blurred
the house was dark but smelled like freshly polished wood and smoke and your stepmother, who at school you claimed to hate, materialized
with two vintage mad magazine books for me to keep
her maiden name was written inside,
marked 1981 and dog-eared, alfred e neuman and bill gaines.
back home my autograph sat inside a 70’s themed frame i had never colored in
before it smudged and blurred underneath a humidifier
before i came home and turned off the lights, alone
they didn’t trust me at a sleepover party with boys,
they didn’t trust me even though i was invited.
couldn’t sing tenor, couldn’t play the part of ren, tom, orin, joe (or lola),
put a bottle on my head and dance as slowly as my body would allow
that summer my mom bought me plaid catholic school-girl skirts, neon pink legwarmers, eighties fishnets; a dream come true
only to find that the director had gone
in a different direction, and i was out in the cold in the late summer heat.
go home and put something else on.