Richmond Beach, a childhood
A pint-sized mystic of empty lots,
I go to the singing under the trees
to escape silence. In the morning,
my father walks downstairs singing
Beiderbecke’s Barnacle Bill the Sailor.
Boylston, home grown
I lose my first real job. I go barefoot all summer. Soulful plays drums all night & all day & all night until he runs out of drugs, then he sleeps & so do we. I love someone who beats me during delusional schizophrenic episodes.
Wallingford, hippie homemaker
We are always home for the JWs because we are always high. Moonie is slower than I am. When I see missionaries coming I scoot into the windowless back room. Slow Moonie is too stoned to get rid of the missionaries once they are in.
Bainbridge, nice neighbors
Our neighbor invites us over for a drink often. A drink, to him, is a cocktail of equal parts Mad Dog 20/20 & Thunderbird. This is not as bad as you might imagine. It is not good, either. But it does the trick.
Ballard, born again
My landlord & upstairs neighbor Brother Eddie is a retired sailor. “Before I found the lord,” he says, “I was a bad, bad boy. Then the lord came down.” The hole in front of our stove where wood shows through the linoleum must be where it happened.