past lives…

three twenty ten

when the knife wouldn’t twist
any farther, the job was done.
you wear a teflon swathed
reputation in my memory, so
it’s as much a shock now as it
ever was. if the local customs
seem strange or unforgiving,
call it square with the passage
of time. modern letters don’t
exist, so whatever your holding
onto (& whatever i’m holding onto)
is existence in a lump of
nothing.

uncounted years of ceremonies,
admissions, loyalty, repatriation,
dance festival commentary &
past due arrivals of soldiers from
faraway lands. there ain’t word,
or any communication to clarify
mystery. a voice in time whispers
“come on home hon’,
you’ve been gone too long.”

now i’m ready to share something
better than those BITD dust-off
decisions. the old stuff can’t
compete with these new powers of
acceleration. siphoning crystalline
salts far past a face i don’t remember
into brain i barely use, i make a quick
count of the days past. too many minor
details that don’t matter; i keep
pushing until something bad is inevitable.

split works both ways; remember
there were those nights BITD
when whatever you wanted could have
been in your back pocket. no more long
past midnight conversations, expectations,
hope. for a brief moment, you kept
wondering while i practiced
falling back into your arms, hoping
recovery wouldn’t involve sharp
metal slicing skin.
(it did.)

i used to follow your trail. after
rereading your favorite psalms,
i’d drive south on route 1 past
the war college where you
almost ran away from home a
long time ago. it sinks in ever
deeper; stupidity knows no
bounds, then or now. i told
trowell the whole story just to
gauge his response & find out
how crazy i really am.

after he finished reaming me out
for three hours, he congratulated me
on not picking up an STD to go
along with the dip-shit stories
’bout past lives made rosy only
through the passage of time.

not that it matters. we were
running late for the poison
shop & we could laugh at me
later. no reason to waste time
defending the right to be ashamed
of yesterdays dip-shit stories;
fuck that noise. let’s
open the factory so we can
make more. after the poison shop
of course.

—————————————

“Oh crb., you’re such an asshole. It would be poetic justice if nobody ever read shit like this. I think you’re such a scum bag. Drop dead.”

I replied simply, as was my wont. “Charade you are my dear. See above.”

After I got done laughing at all involved, I went to find clean underwear. If even remotely true, it really seems like one of those moments where you think the world is collapsing, but in actuality it’s just gas from a low quality burrito. What can you do? That’s the world we live in. May as well get a little humor in when you can.

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