A Coming of Age Piece.......

           I have swelled beneath familiar rooftops,.. at the boiling epicenter of childhood. Somewhere along the delusional interstate of disheveled pajamas and footsies. Bedtime tales have glazed my primitive eyeballs,.. at the drooling mouth of intellectual wizardry.
         I have witnessed edited pg-13 movies on television,..ones that consisted of melancholy footnotes and timelines. Sadness was not suggested to me earlier on in life,..it however was not excluded from my daily routine.  Teachers and guidance counselors were sworn (under oath) to protect me from the subdued experienced street people. The ones who'd walk (head down) through  narrow city alleyways in search of passionate thrills,..or cheap lust. I was the puppet-master earlier on in my naive adolescence. I would navigate between stationary trees that decorated my backyard,.. still remaining,.. through unrecognized holidays. I'd take long glances out of the fogged kitchen window,..to captivate a moment in time,..of what went on with the suburban neighbors. On the remote side of our picketed fence. I would send my dog,..(an inquisitive terrier) out on ruthless missions to find out what made the elderly couple tick.
              I would take a long deserved reprieve when the weekend arrived. Unnecessary naps on Sunday afternoon carpets,..that unraveled upon the living room floorboards. A screen door would swing shut somewhere off in the distance,..wind would subside,..then after a long interval,..continue on,.. to jump- start the inevitable evening. I was not aware of the crucial significance of the pork-chop man. Making his entrance with the paper bag in hand,..and a roll of aluminum foil in the other.
           Now on to the roller skating derby society. We sanded  paper constructed from toxic glue. We'd furnish basements to make them seem more "homey". A television livelihood. Carbonated beverage to wash down  Sloppy Joe enjoyment. A baking secret. Instant oatmeal with gummy bears thrown into the mix,..to spice it up. Generation X. The video game club was allowed to visit me six times a week. We'd guzzle our bottled price tags,..with commercial knowledge. A dollar was worth six. Give me the remote control car Jimmy,..you little mama's boy,..and maybe I won't wedgie your ass,..in front of prissy Missy. You piece of shit blue-collared subterranean Fuck.