Jun 25, 2007

Ballad


I marinated the chicken in steak sauce-- my first mistake-- and then I got a divorce a few years later. For some reason, the two are synonymous. The tacos themselves tasted wrong. They were tangy instead of spicy, like a tango involving a white man and a Latina woman. Moreover, the tacos were a beacon of mistrust in an already failing marriage.

Let me tell you something else. These newfangled Quickheat (tm) stoves are tricky. They leave the meat sallow-looking to me. Plus, my hand got burned off a few years ago. Then my wife left me in the hospital. It's weird. The taco got burned onto my hand, and I just told the doctor to leave it; a subtle reminder for decisions rethought and love unrequited.

So, now, have no wife, a taco for a hand and a home reduced top rubble. Mitakes are a real son-of-a-bitch-bastard. The skin bleeds into the meat remnants (now petrified to keep me from smelling so bad). Sometimes I sleep for 11 hours, sometimes I sleep for a half hour. The foreign kids yell at me and throw glass. She lives with a guy who's nice enough. Runs a meat tossing business form his home. Fucking internet sales are BOOMING for that now, I bet. I eat from their garbage sometimes and stare up at her window. Light cascades out at times, other times the entire block is as dark as my blackened hand.

This Blakna kid came and sat with me once. He was drunk as a bird and he let me have some of his whiskey. We walked down to the shore. He was small and breakable like a porcelain swan my mother kept. It was from 1994 she said. I couldn't imagine a time so far backwards, but the boy couldn't imagine what it was like to see a house, hand and marriage burn down in one crack of a taco shell. Motherfucker probably never knew love, but he kept complaining about this one girl who broke him down. Chinese-American girl. I felt bad for him. I put my disfigured hand on his back and he withdrew.

Started screaming. Names were tossed around. He attack from my strong-handed side.

I broke him directly in half with one arm, I swear I did. The crackle of his bones and the dull thuds of his bloody face as I struck him again and again. Then we swam. I dragged his body far out-- I have always been a great swimmer-- and placed him under wrecked ships and the ocean's battle scars. I cut off his right hand. It's under a barrel of something.

Sometimes, when it's cold and dark enough, I'll throw bags of my shit at this one Chinese woman's house. She's got a daughter about his age. Stupid bitches.

Then, I'll see if my woman's light is on or off before I sleep. The only way I can sleep is run my good hand over the hardened lettuce of my bad one. Then, the ground swallows me whole-- I, marinated in years of dirt and battle scars.

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