My brother who’s home from college told me to come down and stand in the garage.
At night the garage is creepy. This then bleeds over into the day. Rooms become scary. Places in the house you grew up in can turn bad on you.
I don’t like that the antlers still have fur; it’s like the deer is alive, in a sad halfway. My brother who’s home from college told me to appreciate it. That means, he’d skinned it good. It’s good. It’s good, I said. Hare Krishna. Good job. Krishna, Krishna. That makes him insane.
My brother who’s home from college said, Good job patronizing me. I don’t know that word, but I know it means, I don’t want to hear it.
I don’t want to see the camera or my brother. He comes home and hunts and goes to all the bars he couldn’t enter when he was in high school. They can card me all they want, he says. He’s happy now.
I hope he gets bounced. I know that word from him. This is what it’s about, growing up around here, he says, as if to warn me. He’s so jaded. I think that means, he’s got no idea how to live.
At night him and his friends stand in closed garages like this one, drink Coors, huff, smoke joints, and toss it all into a garbage bag they take with them, to dump into someone else’s trash. They go out into the night to find older women. Get there late, their guards are down, bro.
I’m not tagging along anymore. I have my own bedroom and it’s still safe. My brother emailed me this photograph from a bar. I want to delete it, but I won’t. My brother who’s home from college took it. I want to be like him, a little. He’s not afraid of any place.