06: June 2015 #02 - Goblin Blanket Flower
Authored by James Kwapisz
Goblin Blanket Flower
Who would have thought our summer could be saved by your convict-cousin? We knew he would be our savior when he gave you his fifth and said, “Drink this. Put some hair on your tits.” We were lost pilgrims until he, Bud-Light-in-hand, enlightened us: “Drinking brewskies and quoting movies: That’s what guys do.” Ah! The good life was ours. We would no longer need to think for ourselves; and now we know that “San Diego” actually means a whale’s vagina. He would probably punch me in the nose if he heard me compare his brain to a cockscomb— but what I mean is that it’s bright and beautiful; his Pittsburgh Steelers- fitted cap the protruding petal. He was our goblin blanket flower, spiraling drunkenly and pissing on your guitar pedals in the backyard where we performed for young teens drinking punch and sitting at picnic tables— but at his core he was red with love. “An apple a day keeps the parole officer away,” he had told us a week before he robbed another convenience store. When autumn came he went back to jail— and you and I went back to school; the walls seemed colder, greyer, the lessons less amusing. The days grew frigid and all we had to keep us warm was the hope that he would return once more, when the sun is red and most overhead, bearing a fifth of whiskey.