Posted by marko on 11/7/2006, 12:23 pm, in reply to "13-21" a world of self-righteous crowns shuffle the sentences i’m pushed against the wall by idiot bullies. i never cry out. the crowd thins out. i take this as a bad sign. so i’m a quitter. i don’t need reminded. but i will be— i string numbers out in front of me. i’m not sure why i i shudder at the thought. it’s all indecipherable now. it’s all so incredibly beautiful. i never try to strike up conversation. i answer any inquiries i could be anyone. but i could never be an everyman. i don’t mention this to anyone. it hurts a little but heals fast i harbor no ill will toward my attacker. we both followed it listens to me without interrupting with song. it never
65.167.39.226
22.
there are rules. there are rules within each of these rules.
it goes on & on. it seems deliberately confusing. more
than that—it seems conniving & sinister. there will never
be a good reason. i’m convinced of this.
nonchalantly, indiscriminately. they don’t even try to hide
it. the punishment never fits the crime. this doesn’t mean i’m
always innocent. i’m often as guilty as sin. but i refuse to be
at the mercy of mood-swings & frustration.
23.
a sharp prick of my index finger, then they squeeze a few
drops onto a small square of glass. i wait. i wonder if they’ll
come back with an explanation. eventually they return. but
they act as if nothing happened.
i never say a word. i never beg for mercy. sometimes the
dare builds into an adrenaline rush. i realize i could kill
them & feel nothing. i’ve been taught better. i think.
24.
i slip from one soundstage to the next. three sides of a
square. the cold winds blows in. there’s never audience
participation. they sit on their hands. they’re afraid of
looking foolish or worse—guilty. they wait for a cue.
there is no applause sign. there’s no program telling them
what comes next. i can see this is a recipe for failure.
25.
i used to imagine great accomplishments. they slowly
dwindled to self-preservation. then a nod dripping in
perfect timing. i’m not taking any more legalized chances
when i know the payoff is rigged.
again & again & again.
26.
a scrambled alphabet dirties up bible black with squeaking
chalk solutions that put me on edge. there’s whispering
behind me. i think i hear my name. many say god has a
name also. some say it should never be spoken. i find this
ludicrous. a puzzled look spells grace.
was designated. my pencil keeps falling into carved initials.
someone wanting to be remembered. someone who wanted
to live forever.
27.
when the fire’s gone out, i rub the ashes between my thumb
& index. fine gray silk with evangelical punctuation. there’s
not even an outline left.
28.
sitting in a dingy greyhound bus terminal. newspapers strewn
about, along with empty potato chip bags, candy wrappers,
last month’s magazines. young faces of runaways. older
faces experienced but non-committal. i don’t trust any of
them.
with as few words as possible. i’m not sure where i’m going.
i never am. i think i remember being here before, but they
all look the same. i can’t recall buying fare. i search my
pockets for a ticket. is there someone i know waiting for me
there? i think i move only to feel myself moving. i catch
myself sometimes. i’m sure i miss more often. but there’s
really no way of knowing since my actions lack rationale
or memory.
29.
i have no permanent address. a postcard is tossed into the
undeliverable slot. there’s no return address. i pull excuses
out of a different hat each time. i refuse to make statements
i’ll be forced to back up later.
30.
a copperhead snake suns itself in july heat. so still it could
pass for dead or taxidermy. i take a seat & wait for life. i
cock my head canine-like, not wanting to miss a single
temptation. i finally lose patience & try to prod one out
with a stick. a 180 degree blur leaves me with two small
welts on my arm. i wash thoroughly with soap & paint a
red patch of iodine.
& will be forgotten for a long time.
our true nature. i can find no fault in that. but many would
disagree.
31.
a bird lives in my chest. it never makes a run for it, though
it’s had plenty of opportunities. it seems satisfied to tap out
a flying tempo on my ribcage. i make sure to feed it every
day. i confide in it. it may or may not understand my
language. i tell it things i wouldn’t tell anyone else.
passes judgment. it doesn’t hint at solutions. we have an
unspoken agreement. we don’t pretend to be two-thirds
of the trinity. these words have nothing to do with prayer.
i stopped making requests long ago.
32.
i admit to occasionally writing my way around certain
alleged factual information. but this is in no way the same
as deliberately lying. there is no point blank can’t miss
from here. there’s no direct eye contact. there’s no stilted
conversation or blank looks. there are secrets of course.
but they will die with us. it must feel good to understand
another completely. it must feel like thick, warm blood in
my mouth. & i refuse to spit it out. because it tastes like
something i’ve never tasted before. i decide to take this
as a confirmation that i’ve been close—somewhere,
at some time. there’s no need for any more questions.
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