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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... cc&d magazine (v212) (the September 2010 Issue)		Order this issue from our printer as an ISSN# paperback book: or as the ISBN# book “Six Six Six”:

Order this writing in the 2010 collection book of poetry from July-December “cc&d” and “Down in the Dirt”.		click on the book cover for an author & poem listing, order the 5.5" x 8.5" ISSN# book order the 6" x 9" ISBN# book

dirty little girl scouts

Casey Cole

I am told that by doing this, my boogers will be orange tomorrow,
taking refuge in a community of strangers that sit smoking
in a bedroom that smells of soccer and funerals.
And I eat too much pizza before I witness
a young, Hispanic girl get pistol-whipped
with a hunting rifle on the Southside.

Looks like somebody lost their ponytail.

Whiskey paints birthday flesh red in the mirror, and we ride.
A girl named Mary tells me about the different dimensions,
pleading with herself to pay better attention in physics.
She throws a phone at me, talks about rape.
Her shoes break into a million little pieces
right before she gets cuffed next to
an ATM at one in the morning.
Nobody seems to care.

A homeless man tells us that we are about to go to the moon.
He follows his declaration with two consecutive rebel yells,
and we all laugh.

Stewart starts confessing his aspirations of pursuing a career in hip-hop.
A small congregation of close friends listens intently
as he spills lines of school-buses and hair salons.

I proceed to purposefully project my car keys at a young woman’s feet.
Her midriff sings songs of sorrow in a dimly lit atmosphere.
Her shoulders are colored simply, telling onlookers
stories of her past four years.

She has no interest in my creative social advances.
Her hair is a brunette spring rain.
We cross the street.

School teachers buy me drinks that create aftertastes of thin mints.
A girl vomits in a fresh can liner thirty minutes passed close.
Our cab-ride home costs nineteen dollars and some cents.
We split the fare between the six of us.
We do not stop at White Castle.

The following morning, a man on a motorcycle drops off
some car keys in an abandoned parking lot.
I proceed to drive recklessly home
in lunchtime sunlight on
a southbound interstate.

The youth of America is a sad, sad tale.

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