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The Left-Handed Smoker

VOL. II (This is no time to panic!, everyone, please try and remain calm. exit accordingly...)

SOME WEEKS AFTER THE HEINOUS EVICTION FROM WHAT I NOW CALL THE PERVASIVE LAP OF LUXURY, Lisa’s back is to me while we spoon, post-sex, in a teenage girl’s bedroom, decorated with all the expected, or unexpected accoutrements. Luckily we have other friends in Albuquerque, who are willing to put us up until the matter of our relocation is settled, and seeing as how the house was empty at the time, we decided to take full advantage of the fact.

The carpet inside the room is a teal shag.

There are snowglobes from Vegas and Disneyland,- neatly arranged on an oakwood entertainment center which holds a Toshiba 27” t.v., a Kenwood stereo (top of the line) and a wide range of educational childrens' books stacked on the shelves. Books I have never read, but am sure are full of developmental value all the same; books such as:

Bad Kitty vs. Uncle Murray



There are lots of class photos (photos in general really) from horseback riding adventures, dance team meets, and childish pranks gone awry (some involving tampons, Cherry Kool-Aid and big American smiles). There are photos with close friends rock-climbing, and at such a young age, this makes me feel older than I should, seeing as how everyday is just another unscaleable rock, or a real bloody tampon with no photo opportunities...

There is a plastic, inflatable, but deflated, red bass gutiar tacked to the wall and ROCK-n-ROLL is emblazened on the body in bold cursive.

There is a poster above the iron bunk bed, which is extremely noisy, each spring rolling and stretching like the spinal column of a wounded beast with exasperated muscle tissue. It is an illustration of an orange, cartoon cat holding a sign:


The word small is italicized, the other letters seen on a much larger scale, and I assume that this serves to emphasize the ideal that just because something/someone is smaller, does not automatically mean they/it are useless, or < worthy of any acolades SOMETHING/SOMEONE BIGGER may RECEIVE.

While I lay my head against the pillow, the October air cuts through the blinds above me. Lisa lies on her stomach, her brown skirt still riding high around her waist, her ass bare and her legs bent at the knees. Her feet are dangling effortlessly in the air and she seems content for the most part. But there is still a tinge of the desperate unknown in her breathing. I can see it when she flips the pages of the book in her hand. A book she has picked up from beneath the bed and a book that we both have grown to love madly.

I trace the black rose on her left hip with my fingertips, all the while praying; to who or what is uncertain, but I pray that:

‘Today will be the day we move into our own place.’

On the right side wall, are cut-out magazine photos with different puppies, all portrayed in a light-hearted manner, caught motionless in one “cute” scenario or another.

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About Frankie Metro

Frankie Metro lives in the bowels of the Route 66 Basement Studio, located in the farthest reaches of the Chihuahua desert. His first chapbook: The Anarchist's Blac Book of Poetry is now available via Crisis Chronicles Press: http://press.crisischronicles.com/2012/05/30/anarchistsblacbookfrankiemetro.aspx
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