From My Eyes
Hayden Smith
Bo walked like no other. His head locked into a catatonic slump, relaxed but tense. Bo’s feet slanted like unbalanced scales, the calf muscles tightening, the buttocks clenching. The strained relationship between his heels and the ground were all crucial to his personalized gait. His hands hung
from his sides like a noose swaying in the breeze, contingent on the volatile traits of Mother Nature. Without warning his free-spirited hands would embark on a sudden commute to his face, his fingers splayed out across his face, concealing his mouth. This usually happened when an attractive man or woman walked past.
When Bo walked to the gas station for a pack of cigarettes or to the free clinic for a handful of condoms he often snapped out of his mental stupor and would deliberately stare at the door of the establishment (push or pull?) and analyze his surroundings, taking great caution to avoid as much human interaction as possible.
When Bo read, he read Shakespeare (King Lear). When Bo watched movies, he preferred the work of director Sergio Leone (The Good, the Bad and the Ugly). When Bo watched porn, he preferred violence (Sodom and Gomorrah).
Bo had never intended to be famous.
Bo was a liar.
Fond of his skill for allegory and abstraction, Bo took to the streets like Jesus walking on orange juice. Bo’s trembling fingers etched urgent messages of corruption and hate, of understanding and lust.
Contradictions always make sense.
Morning wood is easily alleviated with a LumberJack. Call Jack Dodson (202) 456-1111
Government: Now with extra pepper, more trans-fat.
Guy Fawkes’s left arm is turning over in its grave.
Cookies are to milk what one-ply toilet paper is to Congress.
Galvanized by Bo’s witty and unapologetic phrases, the people took to the streets like Jesus walking on champagne. Unprecedented was Bo’s influence, power undeniable, detractors welcome. On dark, hushed nights Bo would quickly disrobe, scattering boxes and boxes of shoes, appliances, game systems, furniture, and sporting gear. He would stand completely naked in his room, admiring his slim but divine figure. Then, tying an old black t-shirt around his face to conceal his mouth, Bo would walk the streets, always stark naked.
Bo only wore clothing one time on his vacations of anarchy. The night was, most likely, just a little bit chilly for Bo’s taste. I’d like to think that Bo would be pleased with himself being adorned with his finest clothing on the night on his death. The only problem would be that his button-down shirt covered up the nipple rings he was so proud of.
Bo was half-complete with his latest contribution to the zeitgeist: When the good overwhelms the bad, tie the noose tight around the neck. When the kingdom is divided, place the hands
“On top of your head.”
“What?”
“Put your hands on the top of your head, now.”
“Fuck you, man. I’ve got people to protect me from cops.” Bo sneered at his attacker. Which was almost useless because Bo still had his back to him, but he was sure that his sentiment came across through his diction.
“I ain’t a fucking cop.” I spoke in my baritone-heavy, theatrical voice. I pressed the tip of my knife into the small of Bo’s back. Just enough for a small indent, now. Just enough for one drop of blood, now.
“What do you mean you’re not a cop? Who the heck are you then?” Bo was slipping out of his rebellious persona, and into the preppy-emo poser that I always knew he was.
A faint grin spread across my face, “I’m Sodom. Good to finally meet you, Gomorrah. Now, there is no choice. Why, we can easily have both, Gomorrah. Push and pull.”
My knife flashed through the skin and muscle of Bo’s back, puncturing something vital, I’m sure. And, quickly as I had pushed, I pulled my knife out of him, finding the blood to be useful lubricant in my disengagement. Bo’s hands instinctively migrated towards his mouth. When Bo died he had an almost terrified look about him. I wonder if he would have preferred to die alone.