Tuesday, August 12, 2014

The Menace

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                                                                         I’m the menace.
                                                                               . . .      . . .       

I’m the fly on the ass of the horse. The pestering gnat that soars congruently into the sclera of your eye. I’m the piss on the side of the toilet seat preventing you from sitting down. I’m the failure. The guy parent’s call an accident. I’m a curse word. I roll off the teeth, only touching tongue to the roof of my mouth. Mothers cover their children’s ears, because I’m foul audio. I’m the urban music your dad threw into the trashcan. I’m the walking disaster. The man with a bag and a bottle of two-dollar wine. People hold their noses when I walk by. They look to the ground and hope to god I don’t ask them for a dime. I’m a TV dinner. I taste like shit and I always burn the brownie. My corn goes down cold, and my gravy was pre-packaged in a Chinese sweatshop. I’m a couch potato, lazy and easily breakable. I’m a score of six hundred on the SAT. I’m a stalker. A watcher from afar. I’m the beast that periodically glances over from his end of the booth. I’m thinking. I’m always thinking. How the fuck did I get here?

                   . . .       . . .       . . .
           
She’s the cream that sits on the coffee. She’s the swirled storm shaped like a heart. She’s the poster on the highway. The November collection people can’t afford. She’s a nymph. Amethysts draped down the neck of a goddess.  She’s a French accent. The letter L. She’s the leading lady in an old Italian film.  She’s the second look. The too pretty to shut your mouth. The too smart to start a conversation. She’s two hundred on the BAR. A talker. A smile that meets nose to chin and a set of white teeth that say I do. She’s the angel on the other side habitually meeting my eye. She’s always looking past the dark and right back into the light. Her brown eyes tell me to relax. Stop looking so nervous. Everything’s going to be all right.  

                                                                              . . .        . . .
    
I’m the cat that landed on it’s feet. I’m the bingo spot on the slot machine. I’m the hole-in-one on a rainy day. The last man on earth. The guy that found his wallet. I’m the tree staring at the girl, shading her eyes from what we know as real. I’m not thinking that I’m a menace anymore. I’m not thinking that I deserve to die. I’m not thinking about anything, really. I’m not thinking.
                       
                                                                                   . . .

                  That I’m the luckiest man alive.

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