Friday, January 28, 2011

42 minus 25 is seventeen. I did that calculation on my calculator. Seventeen is one hundred years ago.  It's barely there.  Unfolded.

Sometimes words made out of just music is perfect. A scratchy voice hyperventilating down its own throat while choking on birthday cake made out of rats and raisins swimming between guitar chords and drum solos can pick you up and lay you down better than the best mother could ever do.


What I mean to say is, when you are looking for something to make you feel better it can come from an unexpected place. Turn shit over. Even small shit. Tea cups, crumpled panty hose, shoe boxes. Take whatever you find there as long as it is surrounded in God’s white light. Eat that shit. Swallow it up. Let it fill you and feeeeel.

The above, equal sign, very strong coffee.

For the past three months, not so much lately, there was a story they’d report on all the time. I’d have the ayem radio on and the news person would always start the story the same way. The way they’d present the story would make me sad. I mean, they are probably presenting the story the way the facts made themselves available, but the facts, themselves, were sad. The way the story started was always like this, “A five-year-old boy was shot in the head while showing off his Spiderman costume to his family in his backyard.” It always started this way. Always.

It was the ‘showing off’ part that always got me. That is the part that crushes. I always see him. A tiny Spiderman. A tiny blue and red boy. Did he have them gather round? Was he doing his best Spiderman moves? Were they clapping and laughing and praising? Taking pictures?  He was so excited about his Halloween costume he was ‘showing off’ his costume in his backyard. He wasn’t playing in his backyard. He wasn’t writing in chalk or bouncing a ball or playing with trucks. This boy was showing off his costume. He was making sure his family saw him. How great he was at being Spiderman. He was flexing his Spiderman muscles. His biggest care was probably how much candy he could carry home. And then he got shot in the head. He was five.

It’s been a while now. I don’t hear the story anymore.  But it's still there.  I mean, here.

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