Jackobi

Water has always made a profound effect on the colours of my life.

 I realized, early on, there’s no escaping it so, embrace it, feel it, drink it all in.

There they are again; Bryson, Phil and the rest of the guys...shit, my daily routine begins.

Maybe this time I can dodge them by cutting through the meadow, behind Mr. Ali’s particularly baby, blue bakery and slide-down the morning dew of Wilkinson hill, with a little less than a few knee scratches so dad doesn’t get suspicious.

You see, they’re not “bad” kids, just misguided.

My compassionate side nearly always gets washed out with his stubborn worldview of the glass always being half-empty. That’s what war does to people, I guess…

Innocence is like a fuckin fairytale,

WOW WHAT A DREAM! THE PLATE WAS ALWAYS DIRTY, SPONTANEOUS, CURIOUS AND RIPE TO BE CLEANED, WITH SUDS AND ALL, WHEN IT ENTERS THE DISH PIT!

I love my dad, like a lot

I loved my mom too but

when the kidneys fail, and the heart stops there just ain't no more trips to the beach.

Okay focus jak….we got like 100 yards of a sprint to make it to signora Bianco’s front porch,

her broken english but stern, strong and commanding voice always saves my ass

and she makes a killer calzone!

 “Yo Kobi! Those are some slick jeans; salvation army just giving shit away for free now, right, you pussy!?!?!”

Dammit, despite Bryson being one ugly kid, he was right about me being as frightened as a dog during thunder and yeah salvation army is my dad’s go-to option

but there aren’t any sales you fuckin clown!

Okay so let me paint a picture…

Tempera paint, not acrylic; less consistency, like my life, so far…..

so ptsd isn’t easily fixed

and between Iraq, my mom and losing an arm

the drugs were supposed to help, keyword SUPPOSED TO.

My dad’s quick on his feet though, a true survivor and one with a young kid, no support and a shit-load of agonizing pain.

You see, pharmaceuticals are provided, along with some money to keep the vets afloat, supposedly,

but you can’t stray, or you lose it all.

My dad tried them for a little while but quickly washed them down the drain, dug a hole in the ground and made friends with a gal named Mary Jane.

You could possibly imagine the financial stress that it would cause us

but my dad and I always find a way to make it work and I’d gladly take an ass-kicking for being the poor kid in the upper-middle class,

 bullshit town we live in

 if the weed helps my dad with the pain.

 Oh shit!

Way too much daydreaming; I often get carried away like the current of the east river throughout hurricane season. Half-way up Signora’s porch and a sweaty, scrawny, adolescent boys arm reaches for me as I check my peripherals. 

Time slows,

clouds gather,

darken and the rain hits,

Bryson slips

and the next thing you know

I’m sippin San Benedetto and

eating signora Bianco’s

Calzone.

fin.