Wednesday, March 28, 2007

19

Things I probably shouldn't tell you


Chickens are jealous of us because we have lips, and they don't. They often dream of smacking thier beaks or smiling, and they grow increasingly bitter every time they try and fail.

They get angry when they see us use straws.

They can't whistle; and this often makes the male chickens upset because they can't flirt with the females, and one cannot deny that in matters concerning fliration one cannot replace a sly come hither whistle with a buh-KAWK. They cannot kiss each other on the cheek because they only wind up stabbing each other and when the try a frontal approach it only results in a clicking sound that sounds like morse code for 'DAMMIT why don't we have lips' and they just stop and walk away, frustrated.

They get mad because they can't use cups.

They envy our opposable thumbs and the fact that we have other fingers as well. In fact, every time you walk by a chicken and it ruffles its feathers it is actually trying to flick you off.

My right ear can talk. He tries to talk to other ears but he doesn't know they can't speak (I've tried to tell him but he won't listen to me) and when they don't he gets angry and says stuff like 'HEY! Hey I know you hear me!' He will often play jokes on me, like calling my name in a different voice so I don't recognize it, and when I turn around I don't see anyone and then he laughs, and it then and only then, that I know it is him.


Sometimes I think that if my top lip was bigger than my bottom lip I would look sad, or confused.

Thursday, March 01, 2007

18

I did right. Raised him from boy to man, sent him out into the world to become what he became and everyone tells me I did right. Listen to him sing in his room, at church, heard his voice and figured to myself I did right. Held him in my arms the day he was birthed, smiled as tears fell down my face onto him and after praising my God I figured I did right; watched him, watched him sleep peaceful, and went to bed, thinking I did right. Listen to that “music” he made for years while he made himself a false idol to them women who knew damn well they needed Jesus more than they needed my son, who sold them good times instead of sewing seeds of salvation into those lost souls until he became one of them and I shake my head, thinking I did right to listen to his momma and let my dope addict rock star child come home and tell me I’m wrong for laying my hand down upon the woman I married like he could even think he loves her more than I do, thinkin nothin as he shook his finger at me, stompin at me with that dope in his blood, an madness in his eyes I did not give him and a gun in my hand.

Flash.




I’m sitting in a courtroom. Don’t know how I got here. I’m cold, wearin an orange jumpsuit I don’t remember putting on. Everyone’s looking at me, some cryin, some of em yellin, and the mother of my child is looking at the floor and I’m remembering; and I’m hoping, and I’m praying, that I did right.