Caucasian Dreadlocks

By Mark Abraham · Oct 15, 2013

As Malby & Clinic wander into
this strange circle of light & hospitals,
I turn to display my narrow heart to
an advertisement sunk in the door of a cab.

For reals, I will leave my bike in your path—
we all will!—and I will run weed at all hours of the night.
I will talk in borrowed diction from writers I’ve barely read
even if I leave all doors open.

Pecorino buffs & shines & sings w/
a thick throat still coated with faintest
coating of whipped cream from 2 lime green
concoctions he gobbled from syruped hands.

W/o which he would whine all night, ‘cause: puffs all over, right?
& we would have been caught @ unawares
but C. & M. & P. have realized long ago that my
own premonitions are not to be fucked w/.

Yrstruly has what some call “gift” & what some
explain as a center of light passing through
the case or maybe even the plastic body of a Phish tape
(that’s what C. said, anyways, and he’s a poet).

I grab hands & explain myself—
well, not myself but my feelings, obvs—& each aluminum
can and hash coil stands as witness to our getaway, shining, unsolid,
obliging, de-enervated. I just knew we would need more weed.

Malby collaspes as if he is o-ing all over the place;
C. Taylor Swifts his surprise that I had even another stash after the first extra one.
I scratch my boots & complain about bladder problems &
Stony & the boys from Walgreen’s circle.

Liquid expands across sidewalk;
my alterior spirals @ length; we tie each other’s hair together.
I know it’s your doorstep I’m throwing this BMX at, but it’s a simple gesture
for the dark figures in neon shadows. So laugh now, right?

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