in the rear bumper, that I put there backing
into a yellow pole one night leaving a liquor store
off of Cherry, it reminds me of all the items
I’ve dented, from a truck I had, to the fine
line of five stitches above my right eye.
The dent I have in the bike I’m on, from a night
that blurred so dense a friend’s fog-horn voice
couldn’t warn me of the foot deep pot hole
I hit, and it left this flash of silver from where
the paint chipped, and keeps chipping every
time I take a spin. It’s a metal dimple
from a frown the bike wears, because
even if it gets straightened out, or repainted
there’s always going to a dent that flashes
light in my eyes and reminds me of a handful
of skittled memories that melt rainbows
in my hand, and hey the light just turned green.
By Zack Nelson LopiccoloZack Nelson Lopiccolo is a graduate of California State University, Long Beach where he stole a B.A in Creative Writing and Literature. He is one head of the Cerberus that runs Bank-Heavy Press in the LBC. His strangely erotic voice can be seen or is forthcoming in Indigo Rising, ¡Vaya!zine, Short, Fast, and Deadly, Media Virus, Crack the Spine, Pipe Dream, Contemporary American Voices, The Mas Tequila Review and Carnival. His first chapbook Dancing with Scissors is currently available from Bank-Heavy Press. He currently resides aboard a sailboat in Long Beach, CA pretending to be a pirate, but really works as a Drywall Hanger and Taper. He loves canned green beans.