|
A Warm Blanket Before Death before/after Time trips, stumbles, coughs to see if anyone is looking, and walks on again, embarassed. I live in moments long past, a current of constant recall in my head. I am a traveler even when I don't go nowhere. When I get old, graying old, with my body embers whisper quiet dead by the sighing fire, I will have no concious. My moments tender quick will be slips past the fate and days of gold gone by. Remember that time when two chicks sucked my cock at the same time? Yeah... "Okay, old man, its time for your shot." And the sulky orderlies come in to hold me down as the doctor gets in my face with a big bright light, sticking needles into my arm, as I struggle and fight against my negro captors in white uniforms to no avail. Goddammit, I don't need nothing. Just lemme sit here and drool. "Tough old bastard. Yeah, yeah, yeah...we know you don't mean it." Remember that time I was on the bus, and stole the bus driver's hat? Yeah... Tasting the raspberries right off the bush behind grandpa and granma's house. Falling into the clear blue. My first hit of marijuana. My first fuck. Drifting in the current, these moments lost to everyone but me forevermore, I stand at the back of the class, remembering exactly how everything went down, what was said, and usually what was worn. I come with so many facts, they know now to believe me. The teacher caught you drooling. You cried. I pissed in my locker, on top of the rotting pumpkin and you asked and I denied it. She gave me her virginity. Two Paisan families facing off in Pompeii, two old ladies desperately retaining water squaring off. The blue of the Medeterranean. The old. The old woman crying as we handed out christmas cards, so deep into her own flow she can't get out either. Or maybe she just pissed herself. The slackjawed gaping look of my grandma as she died. Sitting behind grandpa's chair, playing with his hair, trying to get his dander up. Pausing before fucking a chick, seeing her pussy glistening wet, and having everyone burst back into my room. Sitting in the graveyard at midnight on Halloween, hoping to see something. Walking to the train station in Chicago, the man, catatonic, grey haired, eyes staring straight out, seeing nothing, a trail of urine dribbling down his leg on on the ground. His current has got him so rapt, he's never coming out. Getting scolded by my thrid-grade teacher after throttling one of my classmates when he called me a nickname one too many times. "You know...you're going to be one lonely little boy." Don't I know it, sister. My concious will fade, but now, now I need to weave the fabric of the cloth that will bind my mind, and keep it warm, as my bones fade and my eyes only keep the spark sometime, a blanket to keep me warm from the cold realities of life gone by, of potential forever gone, of the possibilities of nothing but death and irony.
|
