Pat Dollard | Young Americans

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Glitter Girl Says: “A day without Pat Dollard is like a day without your weapon.”

12:53 A.M.

I’ve been fighting for a friend’s life all day, his family has decided he’s just not good enough. There’s blood from my knuckles on the bathroom wall and floor. I didn’t punch the waiting room wall like the time she died, cos I knew they’d throw me out.

3:54 A.M.

Doctors are men who know a few of the more obvious things about the body - especially how to cut the fucker where you might want to with knives, or how you can make things you half understand happen with drugs, so Im now at a dangerous place with an accomplce to prepare the final bits of Plan B.

He was about dead. They released him. “Against Death advo\\ We pumped him full of speed like he wanted, and just like the ghost he was he sprang to life and held court for a good two hours on that front lawn in His green and white lawn chair. He had put up a white cross, middle of the lawn, for him to slide out of when he died. The neighbors slept l ightly cos they saw him head to the hospital. The need to know who would win “The Way You Die” Right kept them as awake as cops at the start of shift.

And, like I said, this lower middle-aged giant Iraq vet addressed every single open and important point to each and every family member and neighbor. I never saw so many quiet Mexicans it’s the quiet of both the deepest respect and shame for living in the shadow of what a fantasist like Obama calls white trash or spits out as “Blue Collar” if his ass is surrounded. But the plain folk knew the story, and they new that what was about to leave that lawn chair and this earth at any minute, was a great - no, that’s not enough - everyone around his slipping body d”Daddy’s dead on the lawn! Daddy’s Dead On The Lawn!” they were in the company of a greatness they never would be again. And not just for the many, many medals that came with reams of paper laying out the acts of a Superman that Obama could only pose with, one who held close to his guns with purpose, and who faced his God daily, but for the heroism they saw right here at home that shamed and silenced them.

At 8 A.M. he was finished with his instructions and opions, and said “Okay, before I ask whose got questions, whose been waitin to tell daddy they love him?” Every child and woman exclaimed they did, even the neighbor chicks who knew the legend but him, and then he just slid dead out of the chair onto the lawn and into a part of the shadow of his house which looked for the life of us like the front and middle silohuette of the metal coffin that most warriors in Iraq were killed in. A Humvee.

“Daddy’s dead on the lawn!” “Daddy’s dead on the lawn!”

He had medals. He was in the war. What will they say about him? His women stand cryin. The Mexican neighbors, wonder what he was involved in. He was the violent kind; he in fact saved those Mexicans, once or twice. Wonder what he was involved in? Just what will they say about him? A reader always asks me; I just don’t know anymore.

Co-written on earth and personally offered from the grave by Jeffrey Lee Pierce.

1:49 P.M

Over 773 of the 826 young ( and I mean young, only Stephanie 24, Annie G(did her about 100 times at ages 15 and 16 back when I was same age, but once, gulp, in her 30’s. Only time I went past 30 and the supremely expert bj made up for everything.