A fire in the belly. Joints that stink of gasoline. Empty highways where you can speed. A series of curves to bite like meat. Nostalgia like pistachio shells, never worth the blisters. Hip bones you can chart like canyons. Some will label you greedy, calling for your boyhood when there are bills to pay, politicians to ridicule. They’ll dust off expensive bottles of whiskey, collect happy hours around the waste. Admire the simplicity of cats, the fluctuating ticket prices of golf courses. What coincidences led to this difference in circuitry? Hard to say. After all, your family tree is kinked with impulse like a thinned out garden hose. Parents that eloped, could skim addictions with their index fingers and never knew a bank account from a mattress. Perhaps it was not enough hugs. Maybe it was the kid that boiled your blood in math class. Could have been the speech impediment that put you in therapy, the gator that lived underneath your bed. The first girl you kissed. Perhaps, it was too many hugs. Have no fear. There’s a place for people like us. I have yet to find it but I know what it smells like. I’ll know it by the stacks of unopened mail. $116 in unpaid taxes, a luke-warm glass of Jim Bean, we’ll chase girlies like it’s the 50’s and ponder month-old milk like a well thought-out conspiracy theory.
Daniel Tobin is an aspiring novelist and poet out in Los Angeles, CA. A fanatic of magic realism, he approaches every medium with a sense of metaphor and obscurity. Daniel has a degree in Film Production from Chapman University and currently works as marketing producer at a television network.