iffageek falls

In honor of the great Swartho and the Cable Guy, here's a poem I wrote a few years ago.


Close, but no DeLorean

A week ago, a teenager of thirty-ish
swaggered into the place I was working.
He wore a muscle shirt so badly faded
that the ghostly Pantera logo was only
an echo of its former metal glory. His jeans,
once acid-washed, were giant rips surrounded
by faded denim. Bleached blond hair fought losing
battles against itself – the back was long
and feathered, the top was short and hairsprayed into
place, the spiked-up row along one side a
defiant relic of bygone days. He came to
the counter with something small, a purchase I didn’t
really register, I was so bemused
by the tarnished silver cross that dangled down
from one earlobe. And as he sauntered back out
to the gutless 80’s pony car – the custom
soft-top faded but still badly clashing; the flames
upon the hood and the stripes along the sides
all pointing back to massive exhaust pipes of battered
chrome, and out-of-state plates that stated
‘DARYLSGT’ for all to see – amusement
and pity rampaged across the face of my face.
But as he started the engine and revved it thrice,
a tiny smile quirked the tip of my lips,
and as he buzzed away from me and back to
the 80’s, back to sparkling chrome and silver –
back to a time when he was the Baddest Man in
His Whole Damn Town, a tiny guy from somewhere
inside me nodded his tiny head, raised
his tiny fist in salute, and raised his tiny
voice to say merely, “Right on, dude!”

MM
08/29/00