John Biscello

It was a matter of helium-speak, and tomorrow-talk, and bright ribbons of noise amounting to nothing.

We, hanging out on the street-corner, conducting ping-pong volleys and raps, ferocity and verve, building ourselves up—who we were and were not, what we would do or had already done. We erected fragile monuments to ourselves, and asked others to pay their respects, perhaps even worship the idols we had carved out of thin air.

Yet, in knowing one another’s monuments to be false, and plastered with shit, we tore each other down, behind shoulders, glances, sarcastic jabs and cuts.

Danny Dazer, who you kidding, you’re not moving to Florida to work at Club Med and screw a new babe every night.

And Mike Chichamimo, we all know there is no hot girlfriend who lives in Staten Island, which is why we never see her, right, but she is real with big tits and a tongue she can’t keep out of your mouth.

We talked big because that was the racket, because we were kids on a street-corner, emotional asthmatics stealing helium from the lungs and lives of others, prospectors mining for hot air.

Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow was our ally, and we charted its petty course, full of sound and fury, our tongues turning tricks and teasing value, out of nothing at all.