Class Of 69 by Ed Markowski
Every time we skipped Mister Whitlock‘s geometry class, me and Lucy Rose practiced on the floor in Johnny Munro’s black light room fallout shelter his old man dug on the second day of the Cuban Missile Crisis, between and below Jimi ‘s thin fingers warping and sculpting his guitar strings into napalm swans that screamed in the night halfway through if 6 was 9 , and Grace Slick oozing sex and smirking approvingly above us, all wrapped up in a cherry red Girl Scout uniform .
When May became June, and June became the time to lay our cards on the table me and Lucy was true blue bonafide angle wizards . We could twist and contort our bodies, tongues, lust, and desire better than every green Gumby inside or outside of every dime store from Daytona to Seattle, from San Diego to Philadelphia, from New York City to Tokyo, and from Earth to Eternity .
Lucy Rose and me drove each other way up, over, above, and beyond the peak of Mount Everest. We could do it rolling down hills crawling stretching standing sitting dogging walking jogging running from the cops blowing bubbles in church in the trunk of a Corvair at the Diamond Drop Drive – In eating cheese fries on a toboggan during the national anthem and from the seventh inning stretch right on into hockey season .
We rocked at right acute obtuse supplementary interior obscure chartreuse reflex rebound fringe left and center angles in boxes cones cubes circles ovals squares rectangles trapezoids rapazoids apazoids pazoids voids oids triangles quadrangles pentangles and sextangles , but Mister Whitlock flunked us anyway .