“We fought, we broke up, because I was rude to Eric.”
a tricky conscience, semi-clear, what did I say or how did I say it? She made it clear but i wasn’t sure. She, the manipulator.
I’m poised on the railing, overlooking the old school, nine storey drop, sun in my face. To climb down with sure footing is to clean air conditioning fan belts. I didn’t feel like falling today. Sister is talking to me, about bathrooms and perhaps, suicide, but I cannot decipher a thing.
Hung on the van door, or pasted, is a picture or painting of a pre-teen negro boy, shot dead. Above the faded body were matt black keys on rusty hooks, one for every gangster child killed.
In my hand, medals, the colour of those keys. I turned them over, looking for pins, some had them, some not. The crystal girl was selling them to me, ancient artefacts, one for every gangster child killed.
I offended more than Eric. There were other young poets at the table, my ego saw nothing in them. I preferred the depth of the midget, who told me, “Every one of us has a chaos centre.”
My zippo lighter, in two pieces, was engulfed in fire. Careful not to get burnt, but handling the flaming thing without pain, I put it out between the ice cream cake with its plastic wrapper still on. I did this after roaming a park where I saw a Korean or Japanese girl in costume. I called her, “Samurai” & “Ninja Go.” She made it clear to me they were compliments. i wasn’t going to get killed today.
My white, long sleeved business shirt was too big, bed sheet sized. I had not grown to fit those things but I knew to whom they belonged. A bus.
I was already at a party, at the open place designed for funerals. But I was also still getting ready, putting on pants that were too long. I have yet to grow into them.
Going past quickening, silver doors on trailers.
How pretty my sister is; hair, long and curled, jewels and make up on, looking up at the party. “it’s about time,” she said.
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