Posted: February 16, 2011 in Poetry

We would sit
cold and damp
concrete and dry
cleaners all around
old sixties records
and holes in
the walls from
splintered drumsticks. I
remember or I
think maybe that
time I broke
a stick on
the edge of
a snare drum
and Eli laughed
and stabbed it
into the wall
like a knife.
Violence second nature
in a calming
cleansing way that
never made me
feel threatened. We
were separate from
the house, it
was asylum from
a small town
mentality that we
were far too
weird to inhabit,
and so we
would take walks
along Christmas time
bedecked streets, replete
with these fucking
inflatable Santas that
we talked about
burning to ashes.


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