the neon spun and hummed,
me, about to purify in light
to the crashing waves on rte. one
where the used car dealers habla
exploit español.

robby declared,
“here billy,
this will make ya feel right.”
so we burned a fat one
that friday night
behind the doughnut den
where biddle worked the nightshift
dropping crème filled clogs
in roiling oil.

we were man-boys,
but billy was simply boy
somehow slipping
the special ed. label,
such a neat boy, so very clean
mother dressed, in a polo
mantis arms limp beneath his chin
lidded eyes, hairless milk skin,
we brought him along
to laugh at.

robby shoved billy hard
to the cinder block wall
of gooseflesh drips in gloss paint
“what’s wrong with ya, billy boy?
why are ya soooo screwed up?”
his baby hair fell
the lower lip quivered
and billy closed his eyes.

It was then i felt the rush
the growing buzz
lost and spinning
round and round
in the alley,
overwhelmed
by my cruelty
i dropped in the gravel
where over and over i wailed
“something’s wrong
something’s wrong…"

me, so very unhip,
ruined, our merriment.

11/04/2005

Author's Note: A panic attack lesson on becoming more human.

Posted on 11/04/2005
Copyright © 2026 David Hill