We were gods
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
sometimes, like today
the sun drifting behind cotton clouds, wind whistling a cold
Feburary tune; melodic tenor through iced air
perfect for melancholy and memories to pitch tent and homestead
an acre or two of my time-space,
I miss the girlfriends of adolescence, tight and full of giggles and
the prestige of being two beats to the left and full of shit, indestructible,
balls the size of bulls,
Big-balled bulls strutting and crashing through life carrying the dreams of
all those before them like army banners in the march to medieval Rome
we were havoc, thrill, madness, a tornado of testosterone,
we were headhunters every Friday night,
fans,
were mad screaming villagers crowding the hillsides, coach screaming
words, “kill,” “hit,” “murder that motherfucker,” “you pussies,”
(he said pussy a lot), “if you don’t see stars, motherfucker, hit harder,” “crack a hat
you pussies,”
we’d fly through the air, drilling the enemy, snapping helmet pieces, grinding
inch long cleats into exposed hands, spitting on the fallen ones and glad to bleed,
(get a picture of that for the paper), terror was the weapon and pain the trophy and we
reveled in it,
chasing girls and comparing notes, taking advantage of all favor, and basking in the
heart of high school privilege,
we were gods and too stupid to know it.
J. Masuda © 2005
the sun drifting behind cotton clouds, wind whistling a cold
Feburary tune; melodic tenor through iced air
perfect for melancholy and memories to pitch tent and homestead
an acre or two of my time-space,
I miss the girlfriends of adolescence, tight and full of giggles and
the prestige of being two beats to the left and full of shit, indestructible,
balls the size of bulls,
Big-balled bulls strutting and crashing through life carrying the dreams of
all those before them like army banners in the march to medieval Rome
we were havoc, thrill, madness, a tornado of testosterone,
we were headhunters every Friday night,
fans,
were mad screaming villagers crowding the hillsides, coach screaming
words, “kill,” “hit,” “murder that motherfucker,” “you pussies,”
(he said pussy a lot), “if you don’t see stars, motherfucker, hit harder,” “crack a hat
you pussies,”
we’d fly through the air, drilling the enemy, snapping helmet pieces, grinding
inch long cleats into exposed hands, spitting on the fallen ones and glad to bleed,
(get a picture of that for the paper), terror was the weapon and pain the trophy and we
reveled in it,
chasing girls and comparing notes, taking advantage of all favor, and basking in the
heart of high school privilege,
we were gods and too stupid to know it.
J. Masuda © 2005