|"That cat's deaf and he's missing a few teeth, and don't pet him he's got gunk. He's a good cat though."|
No words of mine are any good without the code key of 25 years’ collected anecdotes and "overheards" thrown together like green stamps in a storage unit.
Moisture creeps in, mold perhaps.
My thoughts were never built to last but they are my prize possessions,
laying revision over vision until my entire life is the blur of rain under shitty windshield wipers.
This life, now, the one I’ve stepped into, is as peachy keen as apple pie and all the other lies TV told us.
How did this happen? How did I trade that set of realities for these?
In the morning I’ll unlock a door, slide into an office chair and settle in...
This week I'll climb onstage, cough clarity into my voice and settle in...
Heh. This voice. What right do I have to a voice?
The only ground I have to stand on belongs to a ten-year old in Disney overalls sneaking oatmeal cream pies from the shelter pantry, accepting Christmas gifts from churches. She still seeks validation, she still fears that the irresponsible junkie in her veins will rear an unruly head against held reins. She remembers what insanity looks like, plunging kitchen cutlery into aging bellies, pulling blubbery steel against leathered skin.
She remembers what life was like before happiness could begin.
This happiness, though, deserves a context that I’m unwilling to give.
I’ll fake the smiles and shake the whitebread hands rather than relive
the late night warnings to stay away from heroin.
No worries, that reflex is built the fuck in.
(so strongly that I’d choose silence
over looking in your addled eyes again)
|"No, cat. I am allergic. Stay back, cat."|