um... what?
My life has pretty much been in shambles lately. The time for curious gestures and half assed hellos is over. Last night I spent I found myself in a tin can of a house, wind tearing at the curtains and rain soaking into the sagging, water stained ceiling, a mingle of legs bustling past me one by one. I bled onto the carpet in the living room, lying next to a mound of dirt spilled out of a rotting tropical plant. It was the kind of dirt with little white particles that I never knew the exact purpose of, and found myself wondering intently at my desperate moment of clarity, there on that floor, what God would think of these white specks in his dirt. More clarity. What would the owner of this dilapidated shack think of my blood on his carpet?
I'd run for three blocks and the nipping at my heals pounced against the walls in red and blue light and then was gone. I became aware of the pain in my wrist that still held fragments of pavement in little impact dimples. It doesn't seem to matter, the texture of the concrete. You always seem to take something with you upon rising after a spill, or more exactly, a terrible and painful pummeling. Embarrassment. Not an emotion I should be conscious of in my state, the smell of dog and vomit filling my lungs as my temple beats a drum line against the shag. This seventies, retro, pile of decomposing pine studs and shingles comes into focus in its entirety. There is a plastic, pear shaped, metal legged chair of lime green bubbled along its backside from being put closer to the radiator more times than was safe or reasonable. A light of sorts hangs flickering in the corner, its bulb surrounded by tiny brown diamonds in a poor man's chandelier. The sunset through a slit in the heavy curtains made what I could see a surreal shade of orange like in the happy ends of movies for couples. Footsteps. It is then that I am brought abruptly to my feet by a well built man reminding me of Jesus while the blood from my knee fails to clot, my pant leg ripping my wound anew, flesh from tender tissue. Before I can see much of anything at all, my savior grasps me, then, by my throat. I struggle to breathe. Throbbing under hot fingers, I gurgle out some pitiful yelp. The stranger, whose home I have apparently thrust myself into, bleeding, belligerent, and without an express invitation, clutches harder, until unkempt finger nails bore into my skin, and demands, in a shower of saliva, my mother fucking business bleeding on his floor.
I'd run for three blocks and the nipping at my heals pounced against the walls in red and blue light and then was gone. I became aware of the pain in my wrist that still held fragments of pavement in little impact dimples. It doesn't seem to matter, the texture of the concrete. You always seem to take something with you upon rising after a spill, or more exactly, a terrible and painful pummeling. Embarrassment. Not an emotion I should be conscious of in my state, the smell of dog and vomit filling my lungs as my temple beats a drum line against the shag. This seventies, retro, pile of decomposing pine studs and shingles comes into focus in its entirety. There is a plastic, pear shaped, metal legged chair of lime green bubbled along its backside from being put closer to the radiator more times than was safe or reasonable. A light of sorts hangs flickering in the corner, its bulb surrounded by tiny brown diamonds in a poor man's chandelier. The sunset through a slit in the heavy curtains made what I could see a surreal shade of orange like in the happy ends of movies for couples. Footsteps. It is then that I am brought abruptly to my feet by a well built man reminding me of Jesus while the blood from my knee fails to clot, my pant leg ripping my wound anew, flesh from tender tissue. Before I can see much of anything at all, my savior grasps me, then, by my throat. I struggle to breathe. Throbbing under hot fingers, I gurgle out some pitiful yelp. The stranger, whose home I have apparently thrust myself into, bleeding, belligerent, and without an express invitation, clutches harder, until unkempt finger nails bore into my skin, and demands, in a shower of saliva, my mother fucking business bleeding on his floor.