Poetry by J. Marquez Jr.
The cassette labeled, “Mixed Oldies” plays Hey! Love by The Delfonics.
The Kenwood Pullout generates 1.5K watts of sound in a game of Hot Potato.
“And, Alpine Amp, now you’ve got it!”
“No I don’t. The Alpine Equalizer has it!”
“Hot potato! Hot potato! Kenwood Speakers. Ha! You lose!”
Two Hitboys. South-bound Park Avenue.
Deep-dished chromed rims on a red El Camino.
Creeping red El Camino.
Belly-nearly-scraping-the-ground El Camino—
It’s a creeping red El Crawlino.
Baseball caps. Creased white T’s. Oversized Dickies. All-Star Chucks.
Old English letters tattooed across scrawny arms.
Old English letters across the back of shaved heads.
The strong bitterness of beer hides beneath a faint sweet fragrance.
Ralph Lauren’s Polo—Original Green.
How bout a license? None. How come? Too young for one.
And the speakers call out: Hey! Love!
And The Crawler responds: No love!
A right turn on Grand Avenue. A quick left on Third.
The Red Crawler crawls slower. The mouth of a twelve-gauge peeks out the window.
And: BOOM! MOTHERFUCKER!
A woman’s shrill scream within the distance is heard.
The shotgun’s firecracker breath mingles with the night chills of December.
A sixteen-year-old loses a hand holding a beer bottle.
Brewed and bottled in Mexico. The Corona meets its demise in Los Angeles.
Thousands of shards spattered across an asphalt-paved mid-city alley—
I said: BOOM! MOTHERFUCKER!
And the sixteen-year-old loses more than a hand.
Droplets of blood spattered across an asphalt-paved mid-city alley.
A mother is sentenced to have a bad night. A bad winter. A bad Christmas.
The El Camino’s rubber paws screech. Farewell. Goodbye.
The December Nightsky is The Watcher.
Blue lights. Red lights. The howl of an amplified siren.
The red El Crawlino is no longer but a red speeding demon. West-bound Twelve Street.
One cop. Two cops. Three cops. Ten. The Ghettobird hovers above.
The Delfonics sing, “Hey! Love…Hey! Love…Hey! Love…”
Meanwhile The Watcher watches.
Fifty miles per hour turns into ninety—
Sixty miles over the speed limit of thirty.
It’s the end of the road. Figuratively. Literally.
Ninety turns into zero miles per hour—
Thirty miles under the speed limit of thirty.
Two defiant Hitkids. Two foul-mouthed shotguns.
The Callout: BOOM! MOTHERFUCKERS!
The Response: BOOM! BOOM! MOTHERFUCKERS!
The Watcher is silent.
The Callout: BOOM! MOTHERFUclick—click…click…click…
The Response: BOOM…BOOM…BOOM…BOOM…
Two other mothers. Sentenced to have a bad night. A bad winter. A bad Christmas.
And The Ghosts call out: Hey! Love…
And The Backup-Vocal-Ghosts respond: Hey! Love…Hey! Love…
Over and over. Again and again.
Bio: Influenced by the powerful shrieks and obscure messages that lurk beneath the undertow that Tool creates, driven by the consonance that intermingles with the dissonance overflowing out of the golden cup that Opeth serves the listener and induced by the remedy that Pink Floyd provides with just a little pin-prick, J. Marquez Jr. juggles his limited time writing angry essays, vicious short stories and nonsensical poetry that only he understands. One can find some of this riffraff on recent issues of The Literary Hatchet and/or here at The Yard: Crime Blog. He sends his regards from Los Angeles with love.
Photo by Pexels/Pixabay. Edited by The Yard
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