—you gotta run out the back, i’ll keep the car running way out to the pigs
When I am living my best or “operating at capacity” it is either because i have packed my schedule so full i have not one second to think about where or “who” i am; or it is because i am running the most strict time table the-world-has-ever-seen.
This is a time table down to the meals, down to the streets im walking on.
—you best be off work: literally on the verge of
Driving.
Hand tapping the third.
Eyes warm and tired.
There is cracking paint, there is wood that has been chewed on. One of the back windows never locks and you can climb inside that way after school when it’s hot out and no one is home.
The garage is unlocked. The attic pulls down on a bench. Windowsill where there is that sort of feeling, where the branch has blossoms: little leaves not evenly placed, and they fall to the floor.
Without saying much, there is that chunk missing in the drywall by the stairs, at the start of the staircase, from the bottom.
The car door slams shut and she’s walking around the back, her head is in her hands: here, and she’s pulling something out of her pocket. It is a cellphone or a cigarette. God! Fuck!
She gets back in the car.
Climbing in through that broken window on a “hot” “summer” night. And it’s really: lying on your floor (carpet, new) on your stomach, with your chin propped up just enough to see that screen while your fingers hit-them-damn keys. Staring at that shit until your eyes hurt.
Walk to the kitchen for a freezer cookie watch it bake in the oven. Dark, the oven light: all there is. And eat that freezer cookie in the backroom where the water hits the roof when the rain falls. Staring at the ceiling and listening. Long listening. Things can be real just because I say they are.
When I fell off my bike this morning and my ankle got all crunched up caught in the pedal and then my sock sticks to my skin with blood all day until I peel it off at home, when earlier in the week you hit your heel (head) so hard taking out the trash. That should’ve been sign enough. Get it together. Get. On. With your bad self.
I guess it is like, why does it have to be pulling out my fingernails from their beds when it could be walking down the street.
My tongue, is a worn out muscle. Not worn out as in tired: beyond tired, it is in a state of disuse. It, has been thrown to the side, fell behind the shoe rack. Do not forget.
This is not beyond repair.
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