In the pubescent stage of development,
our subject scratches at his pulsating mask of acne
pushing each berried nodule as though they
are panic buttons sending signals out to
the Overlords of Dorkdom
and attempts to stifle an uncontrolled erection
as he crosses the shaky fun bridge
at Knott’s Berry Farm’s Camp Snoopy
which is more affordable than Disneyland
and has crustier gutter characters
to gawk upon candy rot slack-jawed
--he carries an armful of kettle corn,
a churro and a mustard dabbed pretzel
raining salt hail on the wooden path below
our lad is adorned with an over sized
flopping cloth top hat
with majestic glitter and paper stars
won from a fluke high ski ball score
he’s an ace, shaky with mild halitosis vapors
creeping from the rubber band sealed metal
brackets that line his teeth and stifle his speech
snot crusts his peach fuzz mustache,
as he tries to impress his only friend’s
older sister with jokes he stole from
a Reader’s Digest gag manual to no avail
the small children on the shaky fun bridge
cause an earth shattering roll of
unsteadiness and our subject falls to
his knees, splitting his husky size
brand Wrangler jeans at the backside,
a shower of overpriced snack bar treats
raining over his head.
he gets up, pulls his extra large
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
t-shirt over his briefs’ revelation,
and dons his top hat,
savage fury of Mountain Dew gushing
over him, hiding the pussy boy tears
streaming across the craters of
his helpless face.
