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41 KICKFLIP The฀middle-aged฀man’s young฀man฀floats under฀the฀surface฀of฀his฀skin, visible฀via฀acne฀scars, visible฀via฀skateboarders฀skating through฀half-pipes that฀turn฀them฀into฀new skateboarders฀who฀in฀turn turn฀into฀others—hit฀hit฀hit.฀If฀I฀squint I฀see฀all฀the฀boys฀who฀smashed into฀walls฀at฀fifteen. They฀sleep฀beneath the฀I-5฀bridge฀like฀bats, dark,฀fuzzy,฀jittery,฀moving in฀ruts฀their฀muscles฀remember. There’s฀an฀endless฀supply of฀skateboarders,฀so฀why do฀they฀look฀familiar, as฀if฀the฀world฀were฀lazily recycling฀the฀same฀twelve฀guys? Their฀wheels฀hum฀like฀bees, as฀if฀buzz฀could฀make฀the฀soul mobile,฀though฀even฀Christ had฀to฀leave฀his฀human฀hands behind.฀And฀at฀dusk฀the฀black and฀blue฀flies฀outdo฀everyone, ascending฀like฀pupils from฀the฀dilated฀eyes of฀scabby฀itchy฀witnesses trying฀to฀stay฀high. ...

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