Gold, I’m cheating with this since I’m committed to writing on the elements,
Gold, when I was a boy I sought a father figure to paint my body gold, like Shirley Eaton in Goldfinger, the pray or stroke that seals off the oxygen, so the girl dies…
"You mean like the Oscar," one boy said. "You want to go as the Oscar?"
It was Halloween, night over Smithtown, families stumbling in the dark, skeletons knocking on the doors, an air of excitement over death games,
Games of candy, dropping candy in the pumpkin
"Yes, like the Oscar," I hissed. I wrote about this in first novel, Shy.
I never died, I lived through life and its attendant tin fingers,
Olympic gold, or foil, I grew old like a cigarette, chasing the image, went to San Francisco, came to Boulder, at Denver Airport hideous demons and red-eyed horses and gargoyles pluck at your baggage
And I look at them, from the other side of Satan’s mask. "Look, could you just do me already? Let’s just cut to the chase: press your finger down on spray button, tag me."