Willy Palomo
FABIO, THE FUCKBOY EXPLAINS PROVO PUSH
Definition: a form of outercourse practiced by devout Mormons in a failed attempt to keep the law of chastity
The name suggests a singles’ ward dance move, an awkward pivot
without pirouette or pudenda, where white girls wobble a quadruple
combo’s distance from stiff, left-footed elders to Ludacris songs
edited into oblivion. Everyone’s voices shrill and plastic as a bug-eyed
Gidget, the late primadonna Chihuahua, who lost her life to a stroke—
Rest in Peace—but not before intoxicating Americans
with déclassé Mexican delicacies, teaching missionaries how to trill
like they got a mouthful of jalapeños, practicing Spanish like the long-lost
language of the Lamanites while they brag about mission calls to Peru.
Or perhaps the name suggests the leg-split legacy of motherhood, the hours
heaving and huffing, fathers and midwives chanting in unison
as red-nosed child after red-nosed child pops out between knees
like small clowns OD’d on gospel and ecstasy. But no, no child
will come of this pull and push of pelvis, this delicate prayer
you and I sob hot between our thighs, unanswered. If Christ
comes tomorrow morning to answer our prayers, holding a can
of oil and a single match to set the flame, we could look Him
in the eye and be grateful we didn’t commit, we did nothing
we couldn’t admit in front of a halo of angels as we burned,
baptized in fire, celestial and white.
THE SONG OF A FIRECRACKER IN THE VOICE OF A PUNK-ASS FUCKBOY
Give me ten more years and enough lungs to swallow all the smoke
in California. With a pocketknife and an old shirt, I can cut us a flag,
Christopher Columbus a sandcastle and tell the world to BYOB. Call me
18-years-of-hookie-and-yo-mama’s-drugs. I’m not afraid to crash
at your crib. I’m still singing along to my mobile, blasting Drake
and watching airplanes rattle like firecrackers across the sky.
I still like to shake anything I can get my hands on.
You can call them withdrawals. I’m so anxious to burn
and hit the sky body-rocking like a bottle rocket.
I have memories of asses so soft your hands would melt
into them like butter, a woman whose brown fingers
could keep an icicle hard in heat. I still feel her breath
all over me like sand and sunburn. If you put your ear against
one of her breasts, you would hear the Pacific Ocean moan.
No amount of PBR could wash these days away.
A friend who asked me how I could down a pack a night
couldn’t understand the adrenaline of almost drowning.
Have you ever swallowed mouthfuls of the Pacific Ocean?
I don’t have any other name for it but home.
