Sunday, May 6, 2012
the first time I was funny
my hands are cupped, held up to the light catching nothing, but it feels warm. my eyes squint through broken Coke bottles my future's so dark, I need infrared lighting. it sputters in and out the way the rain does on those October mornings when everyone forgets my name and they call me "new kid..." "let's cut classes, get a couple burgers because I remembered today's your birthday..." you shrug and shoulder your tattered corduroy bag, you hustle me up the stairs. my heart lifts, a cloud so easily pushed. you have rings on each finger and a ketchup bottle in one hand, you bang on the end. clink clink clink clink clink clink clink. oh, it's absolute music. a clotted word escapes my throat nervously, shaken free-I say something. You laugh, I laugh. the first time I was funny- that day you twisted and shook something up- I was pulled through my narrow nothingness on the other side I have rings on each finger and a ketchup bottle in one hand, clink clink clink clink- I laugh, this is vaguely familiar. You laugh, but it's muffled- you've face-planted in the mud, heels in the air. and you don't remember that soggy October. No you never remember anything, even though you were there. What a wild imagination I have.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...