GERONIMO

he lived in his car over the winter
he was a point on the grid but far from the line of best fit
he never let anyone else pay
he looked like he hadn’t eat for days
but he always had an unhealthy bundle of generosity in his wallet
he stepped on every single sidewalk crack
he bummed cigarettes from everybody constantly
and no matter how stressed he got
no matter how much the veins in his skull bulged
he always refused to smoke an american spirit

he was a smoker
like some people are hipsters
or gutterpunks or catholics
he was a smoker
that was his defining factor
the way he would drain a 100
as if that was the whole point of the exercise
he kicked dirt wherever there was dirt to be kicked
he questioned the stars
he yelled fuck you! to the stars
fuck you moon!
fuck you space!
he was at war with humanity
he never won

he slept on the light rail
he slept behind mutiny now
of course he smoked while he slept
but it was one giant motion for him
there was no ritual
you just went until you couldn’t anymore
and that you crashed til you woke
sometimes he’d just fall off the face of the earth
it made you worry about him the first couple times

when he spoke from the heart
he was like a shithead fairy godmother

he never existed
if he did i didn’t know him
but he has a lot of shitty qualities
that i wish that i had
the end.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2015

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Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

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