Poem By Robert Brendan

high on mushrooms
the two of us
my companion my friend
tough as icebergs
with a ham of a fist
connected to a bullet
that passerby would think
is an arm
walking down the ave
trilled with energy
our territorial bubbles
now have sharp iron
maidenhead spiked
and clearing
the path for us

then I recognize
the kid on his
on the corner
as the one who five
years ago told seven
or eight of his friends
'beat the shit out of that
little faggot! '
and they did
kicked on the ground the
entire time
my little blond dreadlocks
whipped against my forehead
and that was all I could feel
at the time
all other sensations were
explosions of sharpness

so I walk up to the kid
and say
'say, don’t I know you from
somewhere? '
I extend my hand
in the oldest ritual since
men started checking to
if their fly was undone
and don’t let go
I did not squeeze
'No, you don’t know me.'
Sure I do I said
my grin stretches the width
of my whole face
'What schools did you go to? '
My buddy turns
sees something is up
and looks at us
I know that I would not even
have to lift a finger
just give the word
'Wagner and Page man. Hey,
are you going to let go of
my hand? '
Not yet, I say
So where do I know you from?
I went to those schools too.
Must be that huh?
'Yeah, man.'
I wanted to drink his fear just
a touch more
but I was not too high to
know what I should do
'Well, be seeing you. Enjoy
the night.'
His shoulders drop
in relief
Later, when my buddy asked me
why I didn’t tell him after
I explained the situation
I replied
'I didn’t want it.'

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