Now I am bleeding,
my mouth especially.
—Linda Norton
But I’ve never been in a fist fight. A rite of passage, per my
late father. An appropriate and meaningful stepping stone to
manhood. Although I have been chased around my own apartment
by a person wielding a broomstick. And I have... ... ... ...
Feeling ... not so good? A little down? I want to be able to look
hopefully into the future. My outlook is generally on the plus side,
right? And I live almost every moment with a metaphorical (imaginary?)
encouraging nudge (for me and the growing number of folks I...)
and a slobbering grin. It seems to work. It’s incomprehensible
walking around in a cloud of negativity.
Brunch on Saturday with Chris who talks about attending a fight recently
in Thailand. Kids. Talking about what a bloody mess it was (I picture
cockfighting, a ‘sport’ to which a close relative of mine has considerably
‘given.’ Kevin, a classmate from 1st thru 12th grade, who committed
suicide some time ago, and some guy I forget, stirring up a whole lot of dust
behind the Circle M at lunch break back in high school. My father’s eyes glued
to Muhammad Ali’s fists on television. Tying a tooth to a doorknob and
slamming the door just to get the damned thing out of my mouth.)....
The mouth of a penitent liar.
I’m so sorry. These limbs forget the bloodshed they’ve caused. Stupid limbs.
The mouth of a penitent liar.
I’m so sorry. These limbs forget the bloodshed they’ve caused. Stupid limbs.
Brilliant limbs. Whichever the case, I will not be blind. Or that is my aim.
War is inevitable. It’s a lousy day. I still hope for tomorrow.
