Solomann never seemed to be on the right side of anything. It's hard enough when there's at the very least three sides to every story, and you can
only really see one at a time. For as righteous as the riot contained in name he was rolled out into; as is every unit in their ineffectually solitude
existence; never were the rites of passage any more than a passing of time. He was born sloppy; without the use of his neck muscles. In some places
babies can lift themselves up after only a few hours of puffing on that clear, dry air. These babies fly high above those wandering the cities, and
the few still hiding in a muggy shack or a rust riddled Chevy out in the countryside, where the sun still rises like a peach so sweet you wished it
was just a little salty. Lick the palm of your hand and take a chomp. And it is good. Solomann would never live up to the expectations placed on such
children, but neither would he be banished to the recycling bin. Thank you Siddhartha. You played your part. A nasty old bald-headed man left your
book on a playground bench. I wonder what possessed him. I would look at him and say, "The power of Christ compels you", but never really believe it.
We inherit our lives in a certain condition known as “as is”. Just as some girls grow to be arm-candy, and some husbands in all their
serious achievements and beaming aspirations are sloshed around half mast like a sparkly diamond bracelet bouncing and bobbing on the splintering
wrist of a rapidly thinning, over-watered girl (just call us if she disappears all the way), some of us are trophy-children. “Our own oasis”,
Solomanns' nearly dwarf-sized mother would refer to him as, herself gushing more of his invigorating properties than he would ever be able to bottle
let alone produce on his own. Being sloppy wasn't Solomanns' only inherent quality. He was also so fortunate as to have a constant stomach-ache, one
of which there was no cure; and possessed exceptionally long shin bones. These hinted of things to come. Like the columns of a great stadium, or a
grand old southern plantation, these legs stood tall and straight, with plenty of room for his water balloon body to grow in to them. Sometimes to
pass the torch means to give something of everlasting value to the person who has earned it long before receiving it. Sometimes to pass the torch is
the literal exchange between hands of something fire starting. Or a pillar already burning. Like drinking warm whiskey when you'd really rather be
eating hot food, or doubling up on your personally advised and appropriately doled medication because that's what the doctor ordered. We never take
our own advice, Solomann being no exception.
Pausing between the dusk and the dawn, the essence of what he pawed became less than what he saw a big bright moon shine all night for. Howling
at the milky bulb would not suffice; he would scream with all of his spongy soul. He had a voice like hot mustard that woke all the alleys' assassins,
curious and a bit disturbed by what could deliver such a gnarled and sinewy belt. Highs warbled like a pack of hyenas being crushed by a metal fist
against an iron grate floor, and lows moaned out like thrown-up rocks, possibly sand and nearly glass by the time they surged past those pointed lips.
Nobody ever mentioned that if you yelled for too long, the soul was light and wispy enough to be snatched away in a funnel of hot air like a plastic
bag drifting over a very old Galapagos Tortoise on the crispy side of the beach. Why there was ever a plastic bag to begin with beats me, but not as
bad as my own conscience. I was born here too, just in time to witness the atrocity.
What goes up must come down so you're barreling now, so fast your whole head and body burst into flames, along with your perfectly acceptable
face and all your lovely flowing hair, except your broken wing because it was wrapped in off-white athletic tape.
So you're a wing, you're lurking the perimeter and stalking the baseline. What would be the difference between two 3s or three 2s. Time to tie
the shoes tight so they hug your ankles like a fat lady scatting in a corset. Drooling sweat from hidden pores as the spider legged bass-line traipses
up the long straight highway of the river stone smooth fretboard, as notes and sounds flee from between her manatee chin and walrus upper lip, like
bubbles oozing a stream from out the head hole of a snail that mulled over a kosher line. Roll up the sleeves and make a quick move. A decisive
incision. With size, came forcefulness; and ability. The finer points were lost to the razors edge that seemed to cut a deceptively simple path in the
rose bush garden, still sweet and dripping with the first splashings' of a stubborn morning. There are times where the only way to deal with a
stubborn morning is to kick it in the hip and demand for it to stand hands up. It'll spit out a sort of mirror; memories like a scratched CD. Do
magnets really destroy cassette tapes? I'd be impressed. That'd be the problem. I woke up one morning hating the rain. I still couldn't hate my rain
songs, or the pleasant, predictable sound the two made as they hobbled in loosely looped semi-circles, hand in hand. No, I could really only complain
of how it soaked my shoes and made my feet cold, attached to my weak ankles, connected to my unimpressive shins. Solomann had all the shin in the
world, yet no feet to stand on. He was easy to topple right over whenever he started acting like king stick bug. I was grateful to curse the rain and
And I learned from Solomann the secret of good luck, who learned from a scarecrow looking, dust covered 'slinger. He had a broken arm and no
gun. What you do is you cut off a lock of a girls hair and tuck it safely in your pocket, where it stays. I only kept maybe a stray straggler or two,
but I held them closer to my heart, somewhere between the back of my mouth and the bottom of my throat. Solomann and I will grow up to be the next
Simon and Garfunkel, but we won't necessarily grow our hair into lopsided clouds or claw a six stringed pine-box to the derby. We will however take
whatever ride will get us there, padding our luck on the way.
edit on 17-2-2013 by LizardSlicks because: wanted to change one word