Thursday, July 1, 2010

Dear Pacey,

I nearly died last Monday. I thought it was daring to be riding so fast through the graveyard. I lost control hitting a curve and thought the brakes would stop me. Instead they stopped the bike and my body flew over the handlebars and my head slammed against the pavement. I guess I just lost control. You know, the way Mitch died when Dawson left L.A. to chase love in Boston. I expected it to hurt more.

I could feel both my arms and my legs and stood to brush myself off, but I just spread mud all over my pants. I wanted to take control of the situation, Pacey, I felt like I had to decide my next move. The bike was in no condition to ride. The back wheel was bent into an oval and lodged against the brakes. I tried to carry it along the steep downward path, but my wrists gave out after about a hundred feet. Some of us are men now, Pace, for us the worst pain is to just ache and stand in one place. We can’t all stay something like eighteen forever. I was running late for work.

Oh yeah, I wrote a poem and I want you to decide what it’s about.

I want it to be sudden and intentional.
My legs are long and muscular
and I want it to blow me over,
to be destroyed and taken.
It doesn’t matter if I know
that it’s coming or if it takes
the wind all out of me. I want
the bricks to break and the
support beams to twist and crunch
under the pressure. I’d rather
it was thorough that way.
I want it to happen while
I am still young enough to
appreciate the melodrama.
Some of us are men now, we are
assertive and furious.
We are insatiable and inconsiderate.
There will be no fade to white,
when it comes I hope it looks
into my eyes while it takes me.
When I see it coming I want to feel it
in my joints like a storm,
the way my hands and legs get after
a larger than average orgasm or bike accident.

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