Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Nobody Promised

Tattoos in the 1970's. Green windows to a factory where nobody we knew made chocolate. Driving the backroads at night one could pretend they were lost. Certain types of tears were ignored. Permission - granted or not - was a dominant theme.

Yet there were also fish circling a bucket, their silver bodies creating irregular whirlpools in which one's finger might rest. Elvis died - we knew it from the t.v. I mistook a ballerina for a cowboy and everybody laughed and still do. Steak, corn and home cut fries. Crabapples are bitter but necessary.

Coffee fuels a familiar stance. We throw jarts at the neighbors, rocks at a cat. It was not comfortable, it was known. Like vomit at funerals. Stuffed animals torn open with jack knives, staring at the walls.

It's a lie, yes, but whose? We always read, we always teach, we always covet another way. Nobody promised me anything. The phrase "coming to terms" is synonymous with God. There is bliss in decomposition, everyone in my family knows that.

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