Sunday, February 13, 2011

Broken Good

Screaming at the crows again. Out it pours, pain, frustration, faded love. And the crows take it. They're used to my abuse. Occasionally they'll caw back, black eyed void and casual hate. I dare them to attack, tear off my shirt and wave it at their heads. But they fly away taking wet white shits. Neighbors watch but never intrude. Their lives are sad enough without testing crow patience. Me, I got nothing but time.

Old photos of her still arouse. Long legs, firm ass, a model's posture. Then we were hurt crazy, fun crazy, drunk crazy. We fucked on a dime wherever we liked. Kitchen counter love with the windows open. Faint hair on her arms electric, prim tongue unwound. It was sweetest when she let it all go, pretense, modesty, education. In the moment cries and bruises from sharp corners. Eventually it passed and now is gone. Only the dead remember.

I drink to see my ancestors. Many are mean, shallow, base. What intelligence they have fuels their mockery. They blast me for being a sucker. I smile in the haze, let them flail. You'd think they'd change tactics, but their bile blinds them. They stagger through lost time confused. I reach out and they slap away my hand. A wasted gesture I consciously repeat. Maybe that makes me a sucker. One of us has to embrace it.

She gently drew blood. I didn't resist. It felt too good. I'd collapse with her at my neck. A few hours later I'd wake up, sore, happy. Light burned my eyes. I rubbed them as she came into focus, lips crimson caked. She wanted more. She always wanted more. Step to the plate, baby. All you can eat.

Being thrown into walls seasons you. Life's less a mystery when your head dents plaster.

Cute cashier smiles in dull brown frock. Uniforms obscure, but she floats above it. She shares the secret with those paying attention. Amazing how many miss it. All you need do is look.

An old friend phoned, angry with my writing. Why do you hate? he asks. What happened to you? I say I've changed somewhat, but not in a bitter way. My words are filled with love. That he reads my love as hatred means I've failed to connect. Not the first time. So I keep trying. This is me trying.