Through a dusty film camera, hand-held,
projected on beige walls,
we watch our distant hero.
His sun-beaten brown shirtless chest,
grainy white tube socks,
and patched up trick deck
on a hellish hill
potholes and everything –
almost clipping his wings and yanking him down
stretching out his knotty hair behind his zooming figure
like the cords of a parachute.
We all lean forward
to balance out the acceleration.
His body buzzes down the gritty asphalt
– suspended knees
he’s halfway down the hill
and through a cross-street in the foreground
and while his legs and feet wobble
our hero holds his stance against all physics,
– raising his right arm
straight up over his chest
and unleashes the bird.
We raise our arms and holler,
and lie back into our stances
knowing our hero can fly.
in those summers it almost seemed like forgoing sunscreen and
tumbling 30 feet down
95-degree heat-absorbent gritty asphalt hills
would do for us what
$200/week exfoliation and moisturizer routines did for the hot girls and their moms
Image: Screenshot from GX1000: Best of Sean Greene’s Hill Bombs by Thrasher Magazine.