This is a New York School style-inspired poem I wrote somewhere between 2010 and 2015. Names have been changed but my retelling of events kind of exactly as they happened might be giving too much away. If I ever struck it rich, this dude would totally sue me.
I recently had a long, tedious text conversation with him – the real life inspiration of this poem. Less a conversation, more him lecturing me on how not to live my life and that I should prioritize happiness above all things. I suspect I’ll make an art project of that conversation sometime in the near future. This man has been a muse of mine since we were in 7th grade. I hope he doesn’t resent me too much when he realizes what it means to be one of my muses; I often marvel at those who have done as I dread to do, just as I marvel at those who do what I dream of doing.
Josh was kicked out of a metal band for being too metal. I told him my band played a show at the Marquis recently and he told me a story about the last person who bragged to him about a venue. “He came over with these two ugly bitches, one on each arm, telling me his band played the Fillmore. I told him to take his dogs for a walk.”
He knows all the homeless and street performers on the mall. Musicians, magicians, and meth-heads. I asked him how he has such effortless social skills. He said, “You gotta be a smoker. You’d be amazed how many friends you make with a pack of smokes.”
This was after I kicked him out of my apartment for being too Josh. He’s not a “baby bird.” He went to live with some new friends in what he called Westmonster. Made their basement smell like old weed and sex. I don’t think his hosts had been around that many young women in their lives. He said his roommates resented him when he didn’t share. “I only throw the rejects to the dogs.”
I brought him some money once and waited a long time on the curb outside that house. He came out and said, “Sorry sis, I was balls deep when you pulled up.” I somehow find these antics endearing when I don’t have to put up with them every day. (But he’s not a “baby bird,” Luke. He’s a grown ass man.)
One rainy evening I drove him and his son’s mother downtown to Civic Center Park. They just lost their baby to the courts. It poured on her as she ran out to meet their dealer. I didn’t know she was buying heroin until Josh said they needed it to sleep. While we waited we saw a three-legged black dog limping along in the rain. I said it made me sad.
He said, “Sad? No, that shit gives me hope.”
I drove them back to Westminster and he insisted that I try the opiates. If I wasn’t driving and if I didn’t have someone waiting for me, I would have.
If anyone was waiting for Josh, he seemed to have no idea who.
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