Mar 17

A poem for D.H.

every weeknight during the summer
of 97 at about a quarter
after midnight me and D.H.
would catch the 17

we were both covered in soot and factory dirt
but me worse than him

(he had this way of keeping himself clean)

and it took longer to get home on friday nights
but at least we had all those pretty women to look at
and D.H., he looked harder than I did

and he wanted to get a car
a nice one
and he was going to join the marines
and become a navy seal

and when he’d get out
he’d have a car
a house
retired at 40
and a harem
and I wouldn’t
have shit

that is, of course,
if he hadn’t already
taken over a small
country by then

in that case
he’d give me a call
and offer me
the position
of personal butler

poor D.H.
was really a sad guy

his mom was
by the
green river killer

his father
probably was
the green river killer

he got kicked around
from foster home
to foster home

and the first time
I met him
he was trying to sell me
fake acid

and the last time
I saw him
he looked pretty strung
out after being
kicked out of
the marines

but, D.H., if you’re
still around
you’re about as close
to 40 as I am

and I just want to say
that if I had a car, a house and
a harem, I’d gladly
hand it over
to you

but the small country
is of course another matter
because let’s face it:
you’re fucking insane

–J. Claudius Cloyd