Neon green meteorites rained down
on an old brown Buick Century;
windshield glass fogged by indiscretion.
Too delicate to look away and
too embarrassed to admit that
he was rubbing the armrest that
he mistook for her leg.
Stealing quick glances at her
petite breasts that leapt out of her low cut
sundress as she bent over to retrieve her bag.
Hippies don’t wear bras, thank God.
I tell this story and laugh because
that was a long time ago and
the mental trauma has faded to hilarity.
So I pen this story in atypical orange ink.
That’s right motherfuckers I’m comfortable
with my sexuality; stupid hot pink tattoos
that I’d love to show off on my pale biceps
because they are so damn awesome.
But I would have to take off my shirt
and I dare say no one wants to see my scarred
nipples from 10 gage rings that used to
sag my man boobs and bleed through
my best shirts because they never fully healed.
Do people see the hidden meaning of the
fact that there is no hidden meaning
in my artwork?
If dinosaurs could diffuse bombs then
our pop machines would always be
stocked by poor tyrannosaurs with short
arms and senior citizen style extension grips
used to retrieve soup cans by people confined
to their Hoverounds and fueled by
a desire to never give up
as they cruised the Grand Canyon and Wal Mart aisles.
I’d write more but I can’t feel my hand…
© 2013 p.hill