Aug 7, 2007

Marinated in Whitewash



I'm cool and concentrated like a can of soda fresh out the damn fridge. No sweat beads dribbling into my beard, no permeation of fear, no remainder hanging over my divisive thoughts. I'm clean-handed and light-footed. I've got a black shirt on with fitting blue jeans. A small tear is starting on the pocket, but it's a finite imperfection; one I can handle perfectly.

I lay my head back on the glass and feel the vibration of the train, and brother, it's alright. The two Greek men next to me are shouting and one designs to hit the other. I'm alright with it. Right now, I'm good. I could be Charlie Rose with a dignitary, Dusty Rhodes dropping an elbow, Josh Gibson reaching back to deliver. I am a lion soon to sleep.

Two years ago, I could've been the saddest I've ever been, laying next to a goddamn low sky of a woman knowing I would never be able to love her. Two months ago, I could've been the saddest I've ever been thinking about the expenses piling on me like the pain of old shoes. Two days ago, I could've been the saddest I've ever been, looking at my cracked and bleeding feet and wondering if I was allowed to be happy. Two hours ago, I could've been the saddest I've ever been, groveling for a job I left months ago while looking ahead to what felt like a future brighter than stage light singeing the skin of a fresh-faced actress.

But now, now, I'm ice forming on the top of a freezer. I'm three hours after a narrow escape-- the heart beating normally but the body still acutely aware of it's surroundings. I'm a house just built, pre-tenants.

The Greek man reaches back with a definitive motion, ready to collapse the world on his friend's face. They got on the train together. They know each other well. Two men grapple them to the ground. A bag of empty cans splays out toward the passengers. My stop is forthcoming.

I think, sometimes, that trouble and I have always known each other. I got stories. Trouble intertwines it's fingers in mine. We're soulmates, but this time, I'm clean. My hand is free-swinging as I exit the train right where the steps begin-- the way I planned it. Behind me, four older men struggle for supremacy of muscle. They dance around a ready-made fire. I smolder with confidence.

A slipcover, blue, lays over the couch in my den and my people aren't home. My room is a blank slate. Slices of calm lay on a plate, ready to be devoured. I lay down. Right now, for the first time in weeks, my movements aren't awkward but loose and worthwhile.


You motherfuckers couldn't say shit to me right now, none of you. The bed, the floor, the shelves filled with countless books, the couches, the stove-- all of them swell not with optimism. They, instead, flow through me as if I didn't have them to begin with and that is fine. I am a wood-paneled floor, waxed, or a tendril straining as to light.

3 comments:

dmbmeg said...

I won't say anything smartassy this time. This was good.

Business or Leisure? said...

Thanks, man. I don't know you all that well, but i take that as a high compliment.

dmbmeg said...

you should. I'm really not nice, well, ever.