Sitting on the front porch I fill my lungs with plumes of grey smoke.  After smoking dope I love the taste and smoothness of cigarettes.  With each deep sigh of an exhale I’m a dragon.  The sun sits low in the after dinner sky and the pot makes me introspective/retrospective.

I am this way because of my father, the toothless prick of this city street.  It doesn’t matter what city, because at the heart of them all they’re the same.  That man is the broken foundation of the house he lives in.  I live here too because if I didn’t no one else would.  He can’t take care of himself.  Each day he drinks a quart of that sick golden piss from a bottle.  It might have been the war that made him this way, or his father before him.  I’ll never know the exact reasons. 

            “Close that goddamn door!”

I walk back inside and sit with him in front of the T.V.  The staticy image bounces about on the screen and agitates my tired red eyes.  Football players dance in black and white dreams of pride and glory.  Beside me, sitting in his worn-out armchair is a broken man – drunk for years.  His gaze doesn’t come off of the television screen as I examine him.  Thick contours run across his forehead and compliment the dark bags under his sunken eyes.  With each drink from his glass a gummy mouth parts.  As the lack of sunlight darkens the living room the iridescence of the T.V. makes his greasy face shine.  As repulsive as I find him, I can see myself in him. 

My mouth is dry.  It’s not just dry it’s empty; no saliva, no words.

Short attention spans of advertisements dance across the static screen.

            “So why don’t you ever have girls around here?”

Girls don’t like me.

            “Huh?  When I was your age I was swimming in pussy.”

He licks his thin lizard lips.

            “What is it?  You a faggot, boy?  I never raised no faggot.”

His words marinate in disgust.  He doesn’t even look at me the same now even though I don’t answer.  The real answer is that I’m too embarrassed to have anyone enter my life and see what it truly is.

            “I knew there was somethin’ different bout you, but my God, a faggot?”

My muscles tense and I clench my teeth.  I’d like to kick that old bastard’s remaining teeth in.  I’d like to burry him and piss on his ungraceful grave.  Before fire tears of hate well in my eyes I leave the room.

Thick pulses of deep bass resonate from old speakers.  The record spins and I turn the volume as high as it goes.  What’s going on over there, the neighbours are asking themselves.  They know that it’s not a party.  I slowly strut down the stairs to the living room, back to my father.

            “What the hell are you doing?  Shut that noise off!”

I feel the beat enter my body.  I snap my fingers as I sultrily walk towards him.  I tap my foot as I slowly peel my t-shirt off of my pastel skin.  My vision is a blur and all I can hear is the music.  I slap the shirt down in front of me and slide backwards into the T.V.  To be theatric I kick it off of its stand. 

1-2-3-4.  1-2-3-4. 

I gyrate my hips to the rhythm as I unbutton my faded Levis.  I couldn’t have picked a better day to not wear underwear.  As the speakers vibrate and pulse so does my heart, sending hot blood through my veins.  I delicately slide out of my jeans and strut towards the armchair.  The rush of hate swells my flip-flopping phallus. 

A hard punch of wet glass hits my face.  I go blind, I fall, I end up on the ground naked.  In my daze I watch his mouth scream.  My ears ring.

            “Who’s the faggot now?”

With a smile.