Believe it or not
I was quite happy
at Boys' Republic.

Working hard to learn
how to make it out
with a gangster's tick,
 
sped up, hence unloved
in a thousand fights
up and down the strip.

My tacky luck charm
held firmly aground
against the brick wall.

I had my good looks
and velocity
to escape from all

those dimly lit bars
populated by
housewives, their lips burnt
 
by resilient vows,
meanwhile, running wild
at the break of dawn.

My own wife outside
in her bikinis,
high on the wet lawn.

It took me a while.
I always drew maps
of suburbia
 
from this homelessness,
watching my TV,
wearing my flip flop,
 
in primordial
American soul
of straight to the top.
 
 
jam16