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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: The Kid in the Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirtdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: annie0888
    ASL Info:    49/f/LA
    Elite Ratio:    4.76 - 327/382/122
    Words: 361
    Class/Type: Poetry/Misc
    Total Views: 1133
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2055



    Description:
       Rewrite of a very old poem I posted here a long time ago.


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsThe Kid in the Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirtdots
    -------------------------------------------


    See that kid in a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt?
    He’s got a dozen more –
    AC/DC, Metallica, Pink Floyd –
    crafted by Honduran children,
    purchased with plastic at the mall.

    Not you. You made me phone the radio station a thousand times,
    never the hundred and first caller.
    So we camped on the sidewalk instead,
    in line all night for the Second Helping
    tour with babysitting money and half a summer’s
    worth of mowed lawns crammed in our pockets.

    This kid never delivered car parts to buy
    Nuthin’ Fancy, didn’t grow his hair out for a year,
    wrangle with his father for the right to look Van Zant.
    The holes in his jeans come pre-ripped –
    not from dumping his Honda on a slick street
    after a bold attempt to clear the tracks
    just in time to beat the train.

    What’s hidden there, just inside this kid’s shirt?
    What crumbling heart? What splintered future
    stresses at its seams, threatens to tear it wide open?
    You kept your own secret collections – Valium stash,
    loop of rope, the .25, two bullets – as well as I hid
    my first 8-tracks in the dark part of my closet.

    A green room hums with air conditioners
    running full speed. It’s March.
    The stainless steel table must have been cold
    under your bare flesh. I stare, willing
    your eyes to open, wait awhile for a grin to crack
    your waxy face, am surprised when it doesn’t.

    In the corner, a cardboard box: your wallet,
    keys, belt, greasy Levi’s, leather workboots,
    and a crumpled t-shirt slashed down the front.
    I lift it from its box
    Lyn yrd

    Sky nyrd






    Submitted on 2007-12-04 22:46:59     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      i am not much 4 comments but i like this one it is very good. The imagery and evythign about it was very good
    | Posted on 2007-12-21 00:00:00 | by boya | [ Reply to This ]
      i remember the first time you posted this.
    i remember thinking it was very powerfully created.
    your rewrite has left me completely lost for words.
    all of the things i couldnt understand from your first write scream at me in this second one.

    to me this isnt a rewrite.
    this is a whole nother piece.


    this is heart breaking.
    truely heartbreaking annie.

    the detail you have added in.
    the other tshirts. their origins [both produced and purchased] the pocket money and lawn mowings and the radio station failures to win.

    life had promise then.
    something to aim for.

    what happened along the way?
    what caused that promise to be replaced by hopelessness and death?

    its interesting the comparisons between the things you both were hiding. they were both so important and the implications of them being discovered could have changed things dramatically...

    the closing scene of the stainless steel table and the thoughts of coldness against flesh break my heart and the forever memory this must leave with you...

    im so sorry annie.
    i realise you write of something that happened years back but i am still sorry none the less.

    this is a stunning rewrite.
    i admire you for writing/posting this piece.
    | Posted on 2007-12-06 00:00:00 | by Someones Epiphany | [ Reply to This ]
      I really like this. I like how it is both real time and reflective.

    Just a thought.
    I would almost cut the title down to 'T-Shirt'

    And in S1 maybe

    See that kid [wearing] Lynyrd Skynyrd[?]
    He’s got a dozen more –
    AC/DC, Metallica, Pink Floyd –
    crafted by Honduran children,
    purchased with plastic at the mall.

    I say that because it tightens it up- more to the voice of the poem.

    It is strange sometimes, looking at kids, and seeing ourselves. Especially when styles come back around, reinvented or not. And we know we lived it. The hard way. But the reality is, is they have a hard way too. Obviously. And as much as generations try to emulate each other there are real pains of growing up and unfortunately some can't do it (whatever their reasoning). I don't think I would want to do it again, seriously.

    I am not sure if this is an o.d. or a suicide. But it really doesn't matter. dead is dead.

    This is sad, as well as a statement of how we come full circle with a twist.

    | Posted on 2007-12-05 00:00:00 | by isabella | [ Reply to This ]


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