I take my eyes off Tommy and watch the cruiser as it rolls down the street towards us, slowing to a crawl. I don't like doing it, taking my eyes off him, and it's not something I'd recommend, but I can't watch the car and Tommy all at once, so there it is.
I met Tommy about three years ago, when I needed something and someone sent me his way. I didn't like him, I didn't trust him, and I guess I still don't, but for the time being I need him and I'm pretty sure he thinks he needs me, so I guess in that regard things are on an even keel. He calls me, like he did last night, when there's something need's doing, something that might end up something of a mess, and we put our heads together and see what we can see.
I headed up the steps ahead of him, climbing the musty staircase with the broken handrail, the carpet worn to nothing where a thousand men like me had walked before. I'd like to think, and I used to, that there were no men like me, that I was a different breed, set apart and unique in my abilities, but we're all killers and thieves, we're all the same, and I'm nobody special.
He let us in the door on the third landing and closed it behind me. The apartment was cramped, littered with the evidence of a thousand years of solitary life, hidden away behind locked doors and ratty, faded wallpaper. Dust pinwheeled in the air, suspended in shafts of light stabbing through the rents in the macrame curtains. An ashtray sat half-full on a tv tray in front of the couch, reminding me of Virden and my mother.
We walked through the kitchen, the garbage already turning in the can, and headed into the bedroom, a sad little temple to loneliness and loss and the eventually accepted belief that it probably didn't matter in the first place. There were little nicknacks covering every surface, dried out little snow globes and painted spoons from far-off places like Spokane and Lebanon. The one in Kansas. Maybe she'd had something of a life before, or almost did. Maybe someone'd taken pity on her and brought these back, one by one, trying to convince her there was a world out there after all, a great big place full of horrible little towns to die in, and not some dinky one bedroom walkup in a wasting hulk of brick and rotting timbers.
Didn't work though. So Tommy pointed me across the room, past the woman on the bed, to her vanity sitting spotless in the corner. I don't know why, but I expected everything to be dirty, covered with dust and long-abandoned. I always did, but it never was. I don't know if that was a disappointment, but at the end of the day it probably made things easier, made it feel a little less like the grave robbing it was.
The mirror was clean, and as I gathered up the rings and bangles, the little pearl earrings and necklaces with bits of amber and coral, worthless jewelry worn around the house for years and years, I watched Tommy's reflection as he looked over the room, knowing full well there was nothing else for us to take, no strongbox, no bonds or cash, no silver or family pictures even. That's probably for the best: Tommy's got a weakness. It's the little ones, and I don't like that much but it hasn't got in the way yet, so I'm inclined to look the other way for the time being.
I packed away the rings and such and as we turned to leave we heard the front door open. No voices came with the sound, and that said it all. Tommy took off through the kitchen and I was right on his heels, crashing through the back door and flying down the lopsided steps and across the yard. Over the fence and into the alley, we split up and were gone, without even a shout to fade away behind us.
I turn back to Tommy as the cruiser slinks off into the darkness, the taillights fading embers beckoning, drawing us into some new oblivion if we would only follow, and Tommy's smiling.
25 March 2012
March 25, 2012
March 19, 2012
"The time of test is just upon us"
I listen as their laughter fades and the sounds of night slowly make
themselves known again. When I'm satisfied they've gone, I lower myself
from my hiding spot and pick my way carefully down the ruined stairs. Glass crunches under my feet, the bigger pieces long since removed, raised in desperate defense or drawn across the throat of one of the precious few of us left. What a cruel joke, that I should linger here, alone, while my children lay in unmarked graves. Crueler still the knowledge that had they lived they would surely have cost me my life by now. They didn't, they couldn't, understand the gravity of this situation, know the need for silence, mistrust, fear.
They couldn't have lived: they are not for this world.
Wisps of cloud drift overhead, the last remnant of the toxic storm that blew into the valley below, choking the life out of anything unfortunate enough to be caught exposed and unprepared, finally carried off by the western wind, carried off to ravage some other land, some dusty pocket where decent folk try to scrape some semblance of a life out of the poisoned soil. Then the storms come, blow their homes to pieces and steal their breath. Then the vultures come, the vultures on two legs, picking over the remains, taking what they want and leaving the rest to the dust and the wind and the sun.
These ones stripped the clothes off the bodies, taking that and more from the mother, then packed up the few misshapen vegetables the family'd managed to coax from the earth and headed southwest. They all headed southwest after they got the word (heard it from a man who heard it from a man), taking what they could along the way. And now I was headed that way too.
Moonlight streams into the house through the hole in the roof, though at this point it's more hole than roof. I hold my breath and listen, but nothing's taken notice of me. I peer through the remains of a window before slipping through the doorway. I want to head down into the valley and look over what the vultures left behind, but there's no time. I need to keep moving and I've already lost too much night. Besides, the last thing I need is to be confronted again with the dream laying dead down there on the valley floor. I need to see it, but I need to see it alive, fighting for survival against a world that wants to stamp it out of existence, fighting against this new, ugly human race. That's why I'm headed southwest.
I get my bearings and start walking again. It's tougher now, the stars don't make sense. Someone took this world and shook it, some vengeful god, raining fire down on the good and evil alike, leaving a broken world of wickedness and wrath, with a hopeful few barely holding on, fighting against the storm of destruction threatening to topple everything they've built. They know how delicate it is, and I know too, and that's why I have to see it. I have to know we've got a chance, that these animals that stalk the night don't have the right of it. I have to believe there's a reason to take another step, and for right now, getting to that church is all I've got.
I track the men leading me south around a towering mesa, but they make no effort to disguise their trail. After all, what do they have to fear? We made ourselves masters of this world, and destroyed it to show it. I stay safely out of sight, maybe half an hour behind them, until they set up camp to sleep through the upcoming day. It would be easy enough to slip into their camp and wipe them all out, one by one, make them pay for what they did to that family and I'm sure countless others I wasn't there to witness, but I can't bring myself to do it. I don't know how many of us are left and I have to believe they'll be of some use, they'll serve some purpose. So I wedge myself between some rocks, thankful for the shade they will provide, and cover up as much of my skin as possible. I watch what I can of the coming sunrise before covering my face as well, weariness claiming me beneath my tattered tarp.
I think I imagine a far-off wail, carried by the wind.
19 March 2012
They couldn't have lived: they are not for this world.
Wisps of cloud drift overhead, the last remnant of the toxic storm that blew into the valley below, choking the life out of anything unfortunate enough to be caught exposed and unprepared, finally carried off by the western wind, carried off to ravage some other land, some dusty pocket where decent folk try to scrape some semblance of a life out of the poisoned soil. Then the storms come, blow their homes to pieces and steal their breath. Then the vultures come, the vultures on two legs, picking over the remains, taking what they want and leaving the rest to the dust and the wind and the sun.
These ones stripped the clothes off the bodies, taking that and more from the mother, then packed up the few misshapen vegetables the family'd managed to coax from the earth and headed southwest. They all headed southwest after they got the word (heard it from a man who heard it from a man), taking what they could along the way. And now I was headed that way too.
Moonlight streams into the house through the hole in the roof, though at this point it's more hole than roof. I hold my breath and listen, but nothing's taken notice of me. I peer through the remains of a window before slipping through the doorway. I want to head down into the valley and look over what the vultures left behind, but there's no time. I need to keep moving and I've already lost too much night. Besides, the last thing I need is to be confronted again with the dream laying dead down there on the valley floor. I need to see it, but I need to see it alive, fighting for survival against a world that wants to stamp it out of existence, fighting against this new, ugly human race. That's why I'm headed southwest.
I get my bearings and start walking again. It's tougher now, the stars don't make sense. Someone took this world and shook it, some vengeful god, raining fire down on the good and evil alike, leaving a broken world of wickedness and wrath, with a hopeful few barely holding on, fighting against the storm of destruction threatening to topple everything they've built. They know how delicate it is, and I know too, and that's why I have to see it. I have to know we've got a chance, that these animals that stalk the night don't have the right of it. I have to believe there's a reason to take another step, and for right now, getting to that church is all I've got.
I track the men leading me south around a towering mesa, but they make no effort to disguise their trail. After all, what do they have to fear? We made ourselves masters of this world, and destroyed it to show it. I stay safely out of sight, maybe half an hour behind them, until they set up camp to sleep through the upcoming day. It would be easy enough to slip into their camp and wipe them all out, one by one, make them pay for what they did to that family and I'm sure countless others I wasn't there to witness, but I can't bring myself to do it. I don't know how many of us are left and I have to believe they'll be of some use, they'll serve some purpose. So I wedge myself between some rocks, thankful for the shade they will provide, and cover up as much of my skin as possible. I watch what I can of the coming sunrise before covering my face as well, weariness claiming me beneath my tattered tarp.
I think I imagine a far-off wail, carried by the wind.
19 March 2012
March 11, 2012
Wreathed in flames, he descended upon us
"I don't take kindly to being lied to," I tell him. He looks at me for a minute, thinking, probably, thinking "Does he know, or is that just something to say?" But I know, I've always known. He opened his mouth and I could smell his lies, clear as day, clear as crystal, there they were, all laid out, like I was stupid. I try not to be mad, but it doesn't work. I tell myself I'd have done the same thing, but it's for nothing. I want this man dead.
Two days ago it'd have been different. Two day ago he was my son, she was my wife, and I wasn't nobody's fool. Except I was, except I didn't know. I didn't know and I hate to think I liked it better that way. I hate to think I preferred being the fool, being whispered about and having no idea. I could float along without a care and not even know it was me they were looking at, it was me in those sidelong glances. I never knew I was a wretched creature.
I try to piece it together, but I don't know who I'm mad at. He's easy. He's a target. He did this to himself and far as I can tell he deserves whatever's coming. Truth be told I don't know what that is just yet.
She's harder. I don't want to be sore at her, but then I didn't want this to be the case neither, and here we are. I suppose in the grand scheme, she's worse than him and I suppose that makes me worse than her, but I don't much like that idea. The thought that this is laid at my feet frankly makes me ill. I suppose it's my fault I can't trust her. I suppose it's my fault she can't talk to me. I never laid a hand on her before tonight and if there's a God in heaven I never will again, but it's out of my hands at this point. I've done what I can to be a good man, but the evil in this world seems to cry out for something. Destruction?
"She said you was dead. She said you wasn't nothing."
That hurts. But a part of me knew it was coming, I think. It seemed familiar, like a whuppin. Course that don't make it much easier to take. That's another one I chalk up for him. It's not her fault. She doesn't know. She's weak. That's why she ran. She's got that in her. Her dad was simple. Scared. He didn't put up no fight. I suppose, knowing that, I should have seen this coming. It's poor breeding. But I can't fault her for that. There's only so much one person can be expected to be responsible for.
This man wronged me. He crossed a stranger he thought was dead. Part of me thinks that makes things worse. Part of me says he should walk away from this: he didn't mean no harm. Course ignorance's no excuse. Ignorance'll get you killed quick as can be. Quick as spite at this point.
"I want to kill you. I want to watch you die."
He doesn't like that. Didn't expect he would. It's hardly my concern what he feels right now, but that part of me wants to understand, wants him to understand, and wants me to be the bigger man, to let it go and walk away, turn my back on this. But he won't be no different. And neither will she. And my boy, if he is my boy, is going to call this chickenshit daddy? Well that about turns my stomach.
I recognize I'm fueling my own fire. He's not saying nothing, but I'm building my case against him, building it up brick by brick, letting it just snowball right on up, and I think I'm hoping I'll hate him by the end, and that'll be enough to carry me through.
Walking away from this I think will be the hardest thing I've ever done. I've suffered. I've shoveled shit and ate crow. I've had a lifetime of almost and too late, but not doing this, not doing that one thing you do not do, that's what'll get me. That's what'll break me down, show me who I really am, show me who I'm willing to be. There's a thing inside of me, and it's screaming for release. I take a breath and close my eyes, put it away and think of her.
I think of her smiling up at me, years ago like it was a dream. I think of her smiling and she means it. She's happy and I saw to that. I gave her this bright spot, this moment of life that seems for a second to matter, and she gave it right back to me.
I think of her smiling up at me, and the rest is easy.
11 March 2012
Two days ago it'd have been different. Two day ago he was my son, she was my wife, and I wasn't nobody's fool. Except I was, except I didn't know. I didn't know and I hate to think I liked it better that way. I hate to think I preferred being the fool, being whispered about and having no idea. I could float along without a care and not even know it was me they were looking at, it was me in those sidelong glances. I never knew I was a wretched creature.
I try to piece it together, but I don't know who I'm mad at. He's easy. He's a target. He did this to himself and far as I can tell he deserves whatever's coming. Truth be told I don't know what that is just yet.
She's harder. I don't want to be sore at her, but then I didn't want this to be the case neither, and here we are. I suppose in the grand scheme, she's worse than him and I suppose that makes me worse than her, but I don't much like that idea. The thought that this is laid at my feet frankly makes me ill. I suppose it's my fault I can't trust her. I suppose it's my fault she can't talk to me. I never laid a hand on her before tonight and if there's a God in heaven I never will again, but it's out of my hands at this point. I've done what I can to be a good man, but the evil in this world seems to cry out for something. Destruction?
"She said you was dead. She said you wasn't nothing."
That hurts. But a part of me knew it was coming, I think. It seemed familiar, like a whuppin. Course that don't make it much easier to take. That's another one I chalk up for him. It's not her fault. She doesn't know. She's weak. That's why she ran. She's got that in her. Her dad was simple. Scared. He didn't put up no fight. I suppose, knowing that, I should have seen this coming. It's poor breeding. But I can't fault her for that. There's only so much one person can be expected to be responsible for.
This man wronged me. He crossed a stranger he thought was dead. Part of me thinks that makes things worse. Part of me says he should walk away from this: he didn't mean no harm. Course ignorance's no excuse. Ignorance'll get you killed quick as can be. Quick as spite at this point.
"I want to kill you. I want to watch you die."
He doesn't like that. Didn't expect he would. It's hardly my concern what he feels right now, but that part of me wants to understand, wants him to understand, and wants me to be the bigger man, to let it go and walk away, turn my back on this. But he won't be no different. And neither will she. And my boy, if he is my boy, is going to call this chickenshit daddy? Well that about turns my stomach.
I recognize I'm fueling my own fire. He's not saying nothing, but I'm building my case against him, building it up brick by brick, letting it just snowball right on up, and I think I'm hoping I'll hate him by the end, and that'll be enough to carry me through.
Walking away from this I think will be the hardest thing I've ever done. I've suffered. I've shoveled shit and ate crow. I've had a lifetime of almost and too late, but not doing this, not doing that one thing you do not do, that's what'll get me. That's what'll break me down, show me who I really am, show me who I'm willing to be. There's a thing inside of me, and it's screaming for release. I take a breath and close my eyes, put it away and think of her.
I think of her smiling up at me, years ago like it was a dream. I think of her smiling and she means it. She's happy and I saw to that. I gave her this bright spot, this moment of life that seems for a second to matter, and she gave it right back to me.
I think of her smiling up at me, and the rest is easy.
11 March 2012
March 6, 2012
The future was all laid out
Town where I grew up you had two options: work at the mill or work at the prison. Retirement plans were suicide and also suicide, respectively.
We'd jump off an old railroad bridge into the river in the summer, til the day we found that boy, bloated and fishbelly white. I watched him as he floated by, slow, under the bridge. I watched him til Lorna started screaming, til Tom Mickelson and his deputy waded out there to pull him out of the weeds. We never did much swimming after that.
Lorna was already what you'd call a dramatic girl, emotional. Seeing that dead boy didn't help that none. Maybe the town never changed. Maybe I did. But things was different after that, after that day. And I don't know when, but I realized, not all at once, it came on slow, but I realized that I knew I would die in this town. Not in some fanciful, journal-writing sort of way, "I'll die if I don't get out of here." No, I didn't know the when, but I knew the where. I knew when my time came I'd meet my maker in Smith's Ridge, no matter how far I'd traveled, how I'd labored to keep that dusty nothing of a town at my back. And history would prove me right.
26 February 2012
We'd jump off an old railroad bridge into the river in the summer, til the day we found that boy, bloated and fishbelly white. I watched him as he floated by, slow, under the bridge. I watched him til Lorna started screaming, til Tom Mickelson and his deputy waded out there to pull him out of the weeds. We never did much swimming after that.
Lorna was already what you'd call a dramatic girl, emotional. Seeing that dead boy didn't help that none. Maybe the town never changed. Maybe I did. But things was different after that, after that day. And I don't know when, but I realized, not all at once, it came on slow, but I realized that I knew I would die in this town. Not in some fanciful, journal-writing sort of way, "I'll die if I don't get out of here." No, I didn't know the when, but I knew the where. I knew when my time came I'd meet my maker in Smith's Ridge, no matter how far I'd traveled, how I'd labored to keep that dusty nothing of a town at my back. And history would prove me right.
26 February 2012
Pine trees and foggy roads, nice big yard and a house that feels like a home.
I smash his mouth against the edge of the tub and I don't want or need
to look at the results. All I know is he stops moving and I let his
greasy hair slide out from my fist. The tub rings as his head connects
with it again on the way to the floor. I should have thought about
moving the mat away beforehand, but I didn't, I never do, and the puddle
forms around his head and runs to the mat like it's home. I watch the
pink turn red, almost brown, and wipe my hands on my pants. That son of
a bitch must have never washed his hair once in his damn life.
I watch him for a minute, not really looking at him so much as breathing and just standing there, not thinking. I turn around and head into the kitchen and then into the living room. There aren't a lot of pictures around. I don't know why I thought there would be. It's a nice enough place, but she obviously took care of that. No way Ern had much of any hand in setting any of this up. Not that he couldn't, but I think I know Ern enough, just enough to know he'd have nothing to do with the process. It's just not something he'd spare the time for. And that's fine. I would have done things a bit differently, a bit better, but that's neither here nor there. It is what it is. It wasn't my choice. And besides, I got nothing against him. Just wish he'd wash his hair once in a while is all.
There are pictures, I didn't mean to give the impression there weren't, but it's not like I thought it would be. I'm not in any of these pictures, it's just them. Well, them and others, friends I guess. It's not really any of my business. The point is it's not me in the pictures, not a single goddamn one. Now I'm not going to go through closets and such, digging around to find shoe boxes of photos from way back, making sure and taking a peek, well I haven't yet anyway. I am going to, I just haven't yet. I've been busy. But I'm not in any of these and I can't say as I like that too much at all. I can't say as I expected any different, but I was hoping. I had hope and coming here, well, I didn't mean for things to go as they did, but then I never did and they always zigged when I zagged and so here I am.
I find one picture I like, one that twists it just right, and I take it off the shelf. It's her out on a pier, out northwest it looks like, and it's pretty cold I guess, and windy, and she's smiling that smile and her hat's pulled low and she's got that red in her cheeks and it kills me a little bit, but I'm smiling again, smiling and smiling and I'm keeping this one, regardless of what's in the upstairs closet, whatever I end up doing with that mess in the bathroom, this is mine, this moment is mine, and I'm taking it with me and keeping it safe and secret next to my heart.
I hear something back by the bathroom and make my way through the kitchen. He's dragging himself out of the bathroom, leaking blood out of his mouth and halfway wiping it up with his clothes as he drags himself across the floor, leaving that blood trail, wide and ugly, right across the threshold. I stand there watching him struggling, breathing hard and raspy, wet breaths I'm sure hurt like hell, until he comes upon my feet. He stops and looks up at me, shaking a little, which I attribute to the shock. He's been sort of groaning, low and quiet, since I found the picture, and he doesn't stop when he looks at me. He doesn't even know who I am. That makes me mad, but not at him. I got nothing against him. In fact, I agree with him, we got the same taste. I imagine we'd be fast friends were the situation different. But it isn't.
I crouch down next to him and look into his face. He's trying to talk to me but he can't, between the blood and the broken teeth. He's trying to though, just gurgling away, making little half-words, flashing those teeth at me, jagged and shattered, his lips torn to bits, just a mess to look at. I keep looking though, I don't turn away. I put my knee on his throat and lean. Yeah, we would have got along fine.
7 February 2008
I watch him for a minute, not really looking at him so much as breathing and just standing there, not thinking. I turn around and head into the kitchen and then into the living room. There aren't a lot of pictures around. I don't know why I thought there would be. It's a nice enough place, but she obviously took care of that. No way Ern had much of any hand in setting any of this up. Not that he couldn't, but I think I know Ern enough, just enough to know he'd have nothing to do with the process. It's just not something he'd spare the time for. And that's fine. I would have done things a bit differently, a bit better, but that's neither here nor there. It is what it is. It wasn't my choice. And besides, I got nothing against him. Just wish he'd wash his hair once in a while is all.
There are pictures, I didn't mean to give the impression there weren't, but it's not like I thought it would be. I'm not in any of these pictures, it's just them. Well, them and others, friends I guess. It's not really any of my business. The point is it's not me in the pictures, not a single goddamn one. Now I'm not going to go through closets and such, digging around to find shoe boxes of photos from way back, making sure and taking a peek, well I haven't yet anyway. I am going to, I just haven't yet. I've been busy. But I'm not in any of these and I can't say as I like that too much at all. I can't say as I expected any different, but I was hoping. I had hope and coming here, well, I didn't mean for things to go as they did, but then I never did and they always zigged when I zagged and so here I am.
I find one picture I like, one that twists it just right, and I take it off the shelf. It's her out on a pier, out northwest it looks like, and it's pretty cold I guess, and windy, and she's smiling that smile and her hat's pulled low and she's got that red in her cheeks and it kills me a little bit, but I'm smiling again, smiling and smiling and I'm keeping this one, regardless of what's in the upstairs closet, whatever I end up doing with that mess in the bathroom, this is mine, this moment is mine, and I'm taking it with me and keeping it safe and secret next to my heart.
I hear something back by the bathroom and make my way through the kitchen. He's dragging himself out of the bathroom, leaking blood out of his mouth and halfway wiping it up with his clothes as he drags himself across the floor, leaving that blood trail, wide and ugly, right across the threshold. I stand there watching him struggling, breathing hard and raspy, wet breaths I'm sure hurt like hell, until he comes upon my feet. He stops and looks up at me, shaking a little, which I attribute to the shock. He's been sort of groaning, low and quiet, since I found the picture, and he doesn't stop when he looks at me. He doesn't even know who I am. That makes me mad, but not at him. I got nothing against him. In fact, I agree with him, we got the same taste. I imagine we'd be fast friends were the situation different. But it isn't.
I crouch down next to him and look into his face. He's trying to talk to me but he can't, between the blood and the broken teeth. He's trying to though, just gurgling away, making little half-words, flashing those teeth at me, jagged and shattered, his lips torn to bits, just a mess to look at. I keep looking though, I don't turn away. I put my knee on his throat and lean. Yeah, we would have got along fine.
7 February 2008
Everything seeks its own level
I lick my knuckle an work the spit in with my thumb to break up the blood. If you use spit all you really need to worry about is the stainin of the skin. Everythin else breaks up n flakes off, but less you get to it fast there's stainin an there ain't much you can do bout that. I'm seein my boy today n I can't have him see his daddy looking like this. Can't have his mother see it neither. She'll open her mouth an that's what got me here in the first place, that mouth of hers.
Billy's tellin me there's work out of town, trying to get me out of this place, away from this madness, but I think I'll die if I leave the city. I need it hot n dry n ugly so's any woman I meet's got somethin to offer, somethin new n different that I don't hate yet. An I never hit any of them. That's the God's honest truth. Never a one.
Billy's been pushin hard to get me out of the city, out into the fields or on the road or some such. Says I been gettin in trouble, says I need to get my head straight and stop bleedin on everythin. Might be he's got himself a point. Way I look at it though I'm feedin this town, an takin my use from it. That's the least it could do, really, as I see it. Not that I'm owed nothin, just that it's the decent thing to do. Not that there's anythin decent about me by any stretch but I seem to get by alright.
We're standin in front of the yellow mercado and Billy's talkin n talkin an I got blood in my mouth. Sun's beatin down an I ain't really listenin to Billy too close on account of I'm distracted and the blood's dryin too fast on my fists. Probably a good thing as most of it's mine. Mighta broke the pinkie. Can't really tell, never bent right anyway.
So the sun's beatin down and it's good n dusty and I think about it and I hate this place probably bout as much as I hate myself, so I reckon we about deserve each other. Hate to waste good beer, hell, any beer, but my mouth's too dry to deal with this blood an I need to see my boy today.
Billy's uncle, Billy's sayin, is lookin for folks to knock down buildins in Amarillo. I look over at Billy (Christ he got fat. Never used to sweat like that, even in the heat of the day.). He knows I ain't been to Amarillo since, an I wasn't figurin on goin back any time soon. Soon as I think on it though, there it is. Quick as it comes, I feel the firecrackers up my spine n I smell the bleach again an Jesus Christ she's gone n she ain't never comin back an shit this is what I got? I got money's no good at Shonda's n I got a boy his momma's turnin gainst me an I got aches in the mornin n fights at night n I gotta Yes sir No sir all day long an I gotta bite it back cause I'd break him in two an go back up n ain't no comin back this time around an this place is fuckin killin me, bleedin me dry. I'm leavin holes in walls an pukin up my blood in alleys n parkin lots an only reason I got to mind it is I got a little boy sittin front of a TV somewhere while his momma's suckin a cock to put food on the table an I ain't good enough?
Billy's talkin n talkin n I ain't listenin. I'm takin my boy, I'm takin him an goin North, so's I can teach him to fight an fuck an be a man an make the world his own. I'm takin my boy an raise him up right, show him you don't let no one break you, show him how to put someone in the ground, someone you loved, an walk away strong. Teach him to take a punch an get right back up and take another.
Billy's talkin and talkin and I step off the curb an find myself weightless.
8 March 2007
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