December 1998 / Volume One / Issue Three
Jason F. Williams
go-carting.

Megaphones holler racing updates--
adolescent audience participates
partially pay attention between promises
of great-romantic interest
accumulated over a lifetime.
The owner, the Father, a
young mechanical mystic shattering
grease-monkey stereotypes with
a square-jaw line of indifferent
intelligence; a heroic cowboy
resurrected to stand above the matallic
carcasses of a circulated past, (bony
burials held above ground to now provide,
along with jugs of gasoline and
mounds of dirt, playgrounds for oil-
stained children thrilled to
be alive.) prepares our carts.
The wife, the Mother, a
spectacular beauty opposing wrinkles
without creams or ointments, but
genuine contentment, and clean
body-parts not stained with
the greasy-evidence of a man who
takes his work into the home,
watches on, collecting money.
We, the justice league, (worriedly
watch gullible strippers allowingg diverse
golfers, who, without the consequences
of laws, would rape these women
a thousand times: the elders (whom
we stare at in contempt) would laughingly
encourage the youths eager to gain
group acceptance, fonldle them and
cross the threshold of decency
with new haircuts.) battle for
the best carts.
We, the justice league-- hoped with
Eastwood stares, cynicism, and drunken
literery criticisms, would illuminate
young women to the exclusively
'Fuck 'em and dump 'em' intentions that
older men have for them--
enjoying this surviving specimen
of a nearly-extinct nuclear family,
inhale the exhaust fumes, tighten
goggles, hats, jackets, belts,
and prepare to flip
each other over.
Return to December 1998