Now I am bleeding,
my mouth especially.
—Linda
Norton
But I’ve never been in a fist fight. A rite of passage, per my
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 at the future.
My outlook is generally on the plus side,
right? And I live
almost every moment with a metaphorical
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 an uncle of mine has
considerably
given. Kevin Hurley,
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 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 sorry. These
limbs forget the bloodshed they’ve caused.
Stupid limbs. Brilliant
limbs. Whichever the
case, I will not be blind. War is
inevitable. It’s a lousy day.
I still hope for tomorrow.
