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  • Jimmy Broccoli

I Threw Rocks at Him

I threw rocks at him – I threw rocks at my mate -

his name was Sean

They hit him hard - on his back –

and a few landed against the back of his legs –

as he was walking (then running) away –

he turned back to look at me – he was fucking terrified –

(I still remember his expression) -

his friends turning on him (others were throwing rocks too) –

and I was his friend -

and I responded with anger –

I responded with unrestrained and unfiltered rage

I was a violent youth – a punk boy with an attitude –

hair dyed blue – sometimes black, sometimes neither

Sometimes I claim the violence was beside me or without -

Truth is – it was within me –

Within me all along –

My teenage years were violent – because I was violent –

and violence at that level never leaves you –

even if it remains only as memory

Saturday nights were spent in the grocery store parking lot, asking people to buy alcohol for us –

Adults actually bought alcohol for minors back then –

“Keep the change” and a 21-year-old frat boy would smile –

contributing to the delinquency of minors is a rare artform these days

We did it well - and we never left the parking lot without a 12-pack or a few bottles of Purple Passion (everclear – that shit will fucking kill you)

Me, fucked up – my friends, fucked up – my bitch, I held her beneath my protective anarchist arms, Doc Martens upon my feet –

and I promised her promises I’d never keep –

Then, she’d be on my jock – that’s how it played out –

…that’s how it always played out

My girlfriend – regardless of her name – was always a cunt

Punk-ass bitch, cunt, demanding I pay attention to her –

but I was too often too high, or too drunk, or hanging with my mates –

bitches were for later –

…yeah, I might have been a jerk

Then – at a party at Anthony’s

(there was always a party at Anthony’s - I practically lived there) –

My mate, Sean, caught my eye – and he held it –

and I held it –

And I didn’t know what to fucking do about that –

My bitch on my arm – just about on my jock –

and I’m looking at Sean from across the room…

I’m looking at Sean from across the room

I’m looking at Sean from across the room…

and neither of us looked away


The room grew silent – though the music still played –

and other teens danced or got high or drunk, or –

or whatever the fuck ever –

the room remained silent – and absolutely still…

…my breathing was labored, suddenly -

The entire planet stopped moving and I wasn’t sure how to process that –

so, I didn’t – I fucking didn’t

No, No, No, No, No, -

That couldn’t have been me – I couldn’t have done that –

a friend of mine that night said he didn’t know whether he hated faggots or niggers more – and I didn’t respond –

I didn’t respond

At that time, I was in love with my best friend – Pat –

Not Patricia – Patrick – his name was and is Patrick –

and I didn’t know how to process that (yet) – so I didn’t –

I fucking didn’t

(on another evening I’ll tell you how I, soon after, split both of my wrists open with a broken, jagged, and sharp twig from a tree in my front yard – a story for another day – blood spilled upon my porch, and I went unconscious) …

I was not to be gay…

I didn’t want it – I didn’t fucking want it


Sean – I’m so sorry – I’m no better than they were –

I was worse – I was you – and I rejected you –

I’m so sorry -

I don’t even know if you’re still alive to be able to read this…


I threw rocks at him –

he was my mate –

I saw myself in his mirror

and I didn’t like it

I didn’t want it -

and I didn’t want anybody to know

I didn’t want anybody to know


So, I threw rocks at him

…I fucking threw rocks at him…

Photo: Jimmy Broccoli.

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