April 29, 2009

Yell: Part One (Cont.)



For the Lost Brothers 


a lost line of legit no nonsense athletes throwing the ball in the wrong end-zone and eating goalpost on the way down,

ahhhahhhh bellowing puking yelling yellowing half-assed wives tales liquor before beer and 4 am brawls and  emergency rooms and lockup and the real world,

whole nerdy bros locked for all-nighter monster test copying with brilliant bloodshot eyeballs, the key thrown across the room,

who hid for days in Zoned Out Library sending random  pic messages of some book Foust across the stacks,

putting up with Midwest panic attacks and Californian depression and skull splitting headaches of the south under finals stress in the basement of the Union,

who bummed rides from kids going home not knowing who or how to go, and left, without anyone knowing or caring,

who drank Shasta in station wagons wagons wagons rolling over railroad ties to towns as bleak a Mayberry in warm backseats,

who studied anatomy accounting biology economics engineering and political science  because the market always needs you in America,

who moved into a single in the summer trying to find a suitable fantasy football league who were fantasy football leagues,

who only got discouraged when their quarterback gets injured in training camp in Tucson,

who followed that guy that one time to a show in Amsterdam to see what he meant by carrousel of women,

who sprawled on the beach of Miami with maxed out credit cards seeking Latin or tail or hamburgers,  and found a fortune-teller to talk about life and politics and gave up to a flight over the gulf, 

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