Scoop it out

Remember when you came over and we talked about hot sauce?  Then you showed me how to eat a kiwi.  “Scoop it out, ” you said.

I asked you how to slice an avocado without the pit getting in the way, but you didn’t know.  I showed you how to cook popcorn in a paper bag in the microwave.  It was simple.

There was that time your crazy older brother took out a rifle and shot that poor baby hamster right in front of us.  He told us he was doing it a favor.  Told us it was our fault.  Nobody wants a damaged hamster.

You took us for a ride that night.  Designated driver to the High Schoolers drooling from laughter as you zoomed around the roller-coaster track back hills.  Burning cigarette holes in your dad’s backseat.

Creating lyrics to YYZ since it clearly was lacking.  We were so smart.  And bold.  And lost in beautiful, depressive oblivion.

Superbowls and classic horror spoke into smokey haze.  Bus rides through cartooned city streets.  Always hoping for the smiling Buddha as if we could, someday, glimpse through his blue-sky vision.



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