We were the gyring, reckless, uncontainable sort
of boys. The beamish ones. Who the hell knows
how we first met. Magnetized by some whiffling
bardic pulse. We stole love from each other, gave it
back. We drank milk by the half gallon, stole beer
to sip in secret along the tulgey Yahara’s banks.
We drank up language like purest waters and spat
it forth through befuzzed, arrogant lips in long jets.
We were rarely upset. Come smoke or dereliction
of brotherly bonds, it mattered but little. Never fret.
We were good kids, everyone said so. Still, those
caring for us worried heading into midnight. Were we
trying to prove something? Yes. We just had no clue
as to what. But we would get to the bottom of this
chaos. Galumphing around our neighborhood on
bicycles with backpacks full of vorpal utensils, tools
we could take out, run tests with, heft in our paws
and proffer up as gifts to any little goddesses found.
I saw my boys lose their minds just as my own skull
began to pop, sizzle. I grew concerned. I didn’t know
if we were all going to make it out of this together.
We did, in the end, escape mostly unscathed. But
we also neglected to apologize for almost anything.
Then we lost the old pulse. Gone was the beamitude.
Now years elapse without a faraway sparkle betwixt
us. So did we ever really defeat our manxome foe?