You’re in my Hall of Fame room holding a ginger seal pup with a
fabulous mullet. You have the mullet, not the seal pup. I’m in your Hall of
Fame room going all post-apocalyptic child star, killing and roasting my own
venison while wearing glorious deerskin gaiters. If I had news about my plasma,
you’d be the person I’d write to, to take my mind off the news about my plasma.
If you needed someone to hold the sides of your head to keep your mind ok, I’d
totally write you a poem that metaphorically held the sides of your head. In
our previous friendship, back in time, we were some of those proto-human
toddlers who took painting lessons in a cave ritual about painting lessons. As
a middle-aged man of fifteen, you invented dung sculpture, blowing everyone’s
mind. I had my own project, blowing on fiery twigs to create shapes like those
little brass angels that fly by the heat of candle flame at Christmas. But
nothing like that at all.
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