George's Steak House

i knew this guy once
i knew this guy
we would sit and roleplay terrorist movements
yeah
the looks were always scared
and welcomed.
it was either that, or simian behavior
throwing shit and sticks from our high thrones to their lojack booths

cowboys hate it when you laugh at them
because it's all true



i knew this guy once
i knew this guy
he called everyone nigger
rice-nigger sand-nigger niggermutts
this from the guy that
had a CB in his van
and would dileberately piss off truckers with moronic radio checks
and "what's your twenty, cuntrag?"

fuckin preachers' kids


there was one
who
would
robo for three days then streak down his road picking roses from the neighbors' yards
at least he never ran out of interesting things to say

even when he moaned the star spangled banner
that was fuckin profound




i knew this guy once
i knew this guy
he gave a waitress nine pennies
wrote a little note on the table
"because the service wasn't worth a dime"

yeah we got kicked out a lot.

they were the days
when someone asks, those were them.




you see how it works when you try and forget.

George's Steak House by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Playground Love

When I was five years old it was Tiffany.

She was the red-headed kindergarten bombshell in those maroon
corduroy overalls, eggshell blouse with ruffles, and pink kangaroos.
We shared a bus route, dated for a week ... and then she mysteriously
disappeared over Christmas Break.
She rubbed my back once, after something happened on the bus. I'm certain I've
repressed it - everything except the consoling period afterwards.

It was my first lesson: Love is fleeting, and ephemeral.

In second grade it was best friends Courtney and Melissa. They
tore a dolalr in half and each gave me a piece. The bliss lasted
two whole days, and I learned love is a many splendor-ed
thing. An excellent lesson.

Wasn't until grade three I found rejection. I also learned not
to cry on the playground during recess.

I discovered the little white lie in sixth grade, trading I
Love Yous with Christina for a whopping two weeks.
We also traded tongues in the hallway for shock and awe. I
was, after all, a year younger.

And on go the layers
upon layers upon onion skin layers of deceits, machinations,
frightening truths, and enormous wherewithal. And we wonder why this
shit is so hard, though we've rewritten the code
so many times like we're the goddamn IRS.
It used to be so simple to say I Love You when you
didn't know any better.

I didn't say it again until fourteen and stole my friend's
girlfriend. She lived thirty miles away in a different
school system. I found that Love is hard work,
especially when you have to bike thirty miles just for a
blowjob with braces. Yes also to Love Hurts.
And to the boomerang effect, for we dated again at
seventeen, and twenty, and at twenty-three ...

The layers fall sweet and unsurprised, in no
discernable order. I experienced the younger woman when I lost
my virginity. Somewhere along the way I learned to tell the
truth (Eighteen, with Allison, when I had to tell her the condom
fell off). My ex-wife taught me that taking the next logical
step makes absolutely no sense when your heart's just not in it.

When you read trashy romance novels, everyone writes about the
feeling word pang, like a pang in the chest. At least I don't
have to wonder what they're trying to convey. I have a
pretty good notion.

But in the here and now, I wonder if I'm just naive, like
I'm savagely chasing across failed attempt after chaotic dissent
for the sensation I felt when Tiffany touched her hand to my
five-year-old back, and moved it around a little.

Playground Love by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Glass

When I was six
I dreamt I was running around a basketball court.
I turned and smashed into
this kid's head with my own.

And woke up.

When I was eight and warming-up for a basketball game,
I caught a pass and moved to shoot, only to
ram into Scottie Pettit's forehead,
His brow slanted my
nose a few degrees to the right.




God is a smart-ass.




It was winter, just before Christmas,
and I wore a nose cast.
Neighborhood kids nicknamed me Aardvark
My music teacher pointed me
out to everyone at the Christmas concert
touted my bravery for coming out to sing
despite my temporary deformity.



The second break was
more demeaning.
(on a purely egotistic level)

I was on crutches going on three weeks.
I was thirteen.
There was no dream to warn me.

I had received a but-good razz from
the principal
how I should be supporting my team instead of
flirting with the here-for-just-the-night girls under
the bleachers.

Half-way to the top of the stairs,
my crutches gave way to air, and
my nose found the corner of a step.
I was Aardvark for another six weeks.
It's the reason
I have this enormous bulge
on the bridge of my nose.




Gives me character, they say.
Character is good for you, they say.
Keeps you in your own league they say.


I loathe my character.


The nice guy seems
to keep me in a circle of friends;
the nice guy keeps me from
getting mad when I should;
the nice guy lets people have their
way with me, when normally
I'd think of wringing their necks and
hanging their skins to dry on my balcony.


I loathe my character.


It keeps me down
under foot of
tyrants big and tiny
keeps me under
wraps behind protective coatings of
pleases and thank-yous
puts me in
the comparative position of Kunta Kinte.
(except with twentieth century manners and paler skin)

I pray for a larger balcony.



(and sometimes for a bigger set of testicles)

Glass by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.