for Sam.

I flicked my right directional on.
the car perpendicular to the road I was on waited
until I commited to the turn.
I respected the caution
the restraint
the learning from prior experiences.
if only the rest could all be so wise.
you know, the demographic blessed/
cursed with parts other than mine.

earlier in the day the results were the same:
pink toothpaste in the sink in the morning
not being quite sure where the blood came from.
after the fourth day you think I'd have it pinned
but no dice.
at first I thought it was residual
from the fight a week or two ago.
wishful thinking, perhaps
especially since that nancy only hit me once
for my four, before
the voices of reason resolved the issue for me.
no such luck, though;
the battlescars I've had in the past have healed faster
so this must be something else.
the menthol cigarettes? the cloves I've been smoking?
have I been coughing up lung?
the blood's always dark and thick
not light and bubbly
like the oxygenated blood that passes through the lungs.
at least that's what I tell myself.

no, somehow I think it's more.
they say we only use thirty percent of our brain cells.
they say if a circle of people focus on something
the sorry bastard in the middle can sense what it is;
telepathy, whatever you want to call it.
so what if they all got together and wished that early death on me?
what if this blood is the direct result of spiteful so-and-so's
wishing I finally get what I deserve?
no, not that either:
something more appropriate would've fallen off.
back to square one.
I'm just bleeding from an unknown internal injury of some sort. great.
but hey, better than some silly ass voodoo nonsense.

back to the topic at hand:
one kisses with too much tongue drunk, not enough sober.
the other must've told a lie in some Arab country
because it's never there.
I don't know which I prefer, being mauled or
going through the motions.
equal evils, that must be why I can't commit.
I'm sure there's a reason for all of this
just don't ask me what it is.
(I know, it's the sock you find a few loads later.)

you'd think by now they'd realize
that half the time I give out my number
just so I'll have something else to write about later
after I ruin everything again.
self-fulfilling prophecy is the name of the game
and I make the best of the worst that I make
time and time again.
I subject myself to their kind for the sake of my science.

last night I woke at an unusually ungodly hour
to a mosquito biting my shoulder
in February.

for the last time, I tell myself:
they're people, not shoes
I can try on and send back
when I find they don't fit.

it's like Pontius Pilate going to Christ's funeral.

I spit my gum out after all this
in order to taste the last sip of this Comfort from the South
and sure enough, that deep red's still there
bold and triumphant against the white of the crumpled paper.
somehow, somewhere
someone else's ears are ringing.






Currently reading:
"The Wine of Youth" by John Fante.