One of the best weed highs
we ever had was around ‘95.
We just started grade 8, my younger
accomplice, who was also a come
This kid was a born hustler,
a ladies’ man at 15.
He was great for shoplifting and
in general I owe all the
to be had in my
Half-assed attempt at being cool, to him.
(Sorry, no energy
for the manic
distancing tools of reforming
grace, or redemptive hindsight,
or even casual reminiscence.
And fuck all the after
school misery, too.)
There is no
Good Will Hunting to be had,
and nobody left anyone
For better things either;
he still has a way with
the ladies, even if the fates have
dulled his senses,
encouraged by all those pretty horses,
the gunmen and the lever,
the stirred-up and the Hammer,
an anvil and a believer.
“You hit on the run,
The run hits back on you.”
That kind of hyperbolic
hyper real meta-
Monster ego destruction
of the Roman persuasion;
the kicking of
men and women into eternal fall,
the removing of hope,
the unadulterated slaughter of it,
Anyway we used to smoke this stuff
up by Cherry Tree Island
(a Portuguese guys backyard
we had assumed as ours),
And one spring, a principal of a near-by
school came up and started giving us
Shit, and I (brave because I was moving
across town and this asshole didn’t
know me from Job) told him a slew
of inventive ways to get fucked, and we
darted across fences faster than he could
flair about in the loneliness of useless
threats; he didn’t fucking know us.
Those early highs were so liberating
I felt like god whenever I got a few
puffs into the night. We would gorge
on Frosted Flakes and fits of near-fatal
laughing forever, make fun of his retarded
family with their accents so much stronger than
ours, and which we’d never have again the same.
Our unique speech already
like clippings of hair on a barbers floor,
got devoured by the
clean, close shaven-ness of,
The Mainland Dialect.