20 January 2013

I meditated on death on the journey home
they told me it would help
it did indeed make me chuckle
as I blazed through traffic
could I go right now?
would I be just as ok with a slow cancerous death?

I came home and popped the cap off a far too strong stout
and sat down in front of the writing machine
put on some sad music
dove into the symbols
I really should write I told myself

I’m not here to send a bloody message

this is no way to

the keys pissed me off
I misstruck them frequently in inebriation

then I glanced down at the desk
and I saw a fingernail
was it mine? I wondered

last week
putting on my socks
I noticed  how white one of my toe nails looked
so I picked at it
and then it fell apart.
I pulled it out
with little pain
it was soft and mushy, a malformed nail
maybe I have a horrible disease I thought.
how is my tolerance for pain?

but this nail was not one of mine
it was yours
you shed it
you are usually pretty good about clipping your nails in a sanitary manner
unlike me

it felt peculiar to hold a piece of you in this way
I rubbed it between my fingers
in between typing
and it broke apart

write a poem about me
you asked not so long ago

I don’t do that anymore

either I’m fixed or know too much
to write anymore

I put the same song on repeat
like the old days
to hold onto the distraction
milk it
milking the fucking symbols
wallowing in the disconnect
it is so crude and undignified

symbolic compensation

instead of looking for metaphor in your discarded fingernail
I should take you to the bedroom
and take every part of you between my fingers
even if everything is not OK
even if we are confronting the only truth