Dear Dad Read Online Free Page B

flipped off some Jocks in a little white car and a chase ensued. Mark and his anti-social anorexic punk buddies were on L.S.D. They were scared shitless, when during the chase the Jocks rammed their car into Mark’s car several times. Mark had floored it through town going 80 in a 20 MPH speed zone.
    When a new sheet of Acid arrived into town, half the kids were up all night, driven mad, playing tag and Capture the Leader, wearing bandannas and drinking cups of O.J. at florescent supermarkets that buzzed with electric paranoia.
    I found myself living in a VW van on my friend’s property. He felt obligated to put me up because he took the van out for a test drive a couple days prior and dropped the engine to the ground when he was trying to burn rubber. It was all I had until I met Roxy at Sea Galley.
     
    Roxy was a cook and I was a dishwasher. She was the mother of the Capture the Flag leader. He was the leader because he said he was a secret tiger that could perceive differently. He eventually moved to China and became an artist. I was writing poetry at that time when there was enough daylight shining through the amber stained glass of the Volkswagen. I made succinct impact with the lines of words which eventually won Roxy over and she invited me to live with her.
    I was Twenty, juggling manhood, God, Sexuality, Parents, the beginnings of Alcoholism and now, an older woman. We lived in a plush apartment downtown above a wine seller. We could see the gift shops and the pizza joint across the street from our window. The pizza joint had an infamous green bench in front where crazy transients would stop to beg, sing songs and scare the conservative tourists. One Halloween night, I dressed in a black cape and nothing else and stood on a chair in front of the window and did a Jesus pose. Two teenage girls looked up and we stared at each other as I shimmered with maniacal youth and they froze in fear.
    Roxy invited me into adulthood with my first legal beer at the local Tavern and with going all the way in bed. She introduced the Beat Writers, like William Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, into my life and we listened to Nine Inch Nails in the dark with a red lamp in the corner. She worked with Pasta during the day and would bring home elaborate meals, like black squid ink pasta with a yellow Saffron sauce sprinkled with red Flying Fish Roe. I was a unemployed Boy Toy perhaps, but the love was as classic as Sid and Nancy. And, during moments of midnight vulnerability she unwound her steel heart to reveal a childhood crush. She looked into my eyes, her eyes vibrated with a yearning to jump back to a time when we could have met as innocent and young, shining and together forever.
     
     

    COSMO THE WRITER
     
    I'm not one for rationalization, and when I have ideas flowing through my head like a meteor shower of inspiration, I strike out, stake a claim into the oblivion of my consciousness. Stream of thought? I think not. As with geniuses, they make a statement by not showering, not combing their hair or making contact with other humans for weeks on end. I wish I could afford a real aversion from the supermarket, but I find myself in the bright florescent lights, with the tinted windows up above with security, eating donuts watching me like a Gerbil. I profess that I'm not ordinary. My parents nod their heads, professors laugh but instantly remember their work ethic and hide their snicker in their coffee cup. I'm onto something, maybe it's the tail-end of a tail of a writer that passed through here twenty years ago. I ride my Schwinn cruiser bike downtown and occasionally get a honk of a car horn to remind me of the Present. My legs are sore. I'm exalted from lack of nutrition, truly alive from foraging for a meal, high from the immortality of adolescence, numb from naivete. I get home, wet from washing dishes, and make tea and cinnamon toast. Every flavor excites the neurological chain in my brain. I type on a old Smith-Corona