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billy's hair is a dirty blonde mop that rests willy nilly on top of his head. billy's sister, amy, is a great cutter of hair and keeps him looking smart in the restless style that's popular these days. she didn't work on many people's hair any more. she spends her days and nights busy hanging out with her man friends. this used to bother billy but he accepts it, now. amy's very pretty.
he remembered growing up, their parents hardly around. amy would cut his hair and try new things. if and when mom and dad came home, they didn't seem to notice anyway. those days billy watched a lot of tv and liked to go down to the park and play. he'd go out into the trees and try to get lost or sometimes spend hours intently combing the ground looking for neat bugs.
when he doesn't work now, billy plays music on the stereo. he likes john coltrane and the station that plays rap music with the bad words mixed out. one of his favorites was when someone said "dirty south." he sings along and pretends he's a rapper and dances around his apartment acting like he's smiling at his fans looking up at him on stage. he likes black people. that's something he and amy agree on that their parents just don't understand. billy doesn't care. he knows there are blind people out there and when he thinks about things like that he figures his parents are blind too. blind to the truth.
billy met a girl at the park a couple weeks ago. he was in his cool pearly button cowboy shirt that people loved. billy loved it too. the girl was dark. not just black but dark as midnight. billy liked the way her soft dark skin felt. she had on lime green pants that didn't go all the way down to her ankles with a matching top over a white t-shirt. her words soft and crisp. billy liked the way she sounded. her voice relaxed him. they walked around the park and went to get lemonade drinks afterward. billy remembered the sour juice hitting his mouth. it was delicious.
my friends are good to me, ray says he's been off the coke for a while. terry lives outside town, quiet months now. she told me she'd call and i said i'd wait. a phone hangs silent inside the pocket of my jeans. nothing to say, a part time away. i'm packing my bags to leave. the town is quiet now. grass is green, a row of trees. pass by the old mailbox turned slightly on its post, take a left to another saturday night dream swallowed.
cold on the inside today, nothing revealed. slender words, no response. she looks great though. cheekbones high, round and angular. not the gaunt model variety. warm pools slide to brilliant vacant eyes.
dark beer pours down easily now, emotions fall like autumn leaves. grey skies pass over dark eyes. feel the cold.
today yellow on white on black. says she's sick and not to come too close but can't help myself. she smiles, her eyes dark and wide and bright. her neck a dark cocoa, her shoulder slopes casually. her body walks the line between workout sculpture and nature. what ludacris calls "your traffic jam booty" ... "the best women all reside in africa and that's real..."
today
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