All the manhole covers in town are stamped with a picture of a rose
but to me it looks like a fist. These days everything looks
like a fist to me. Just ask my wife ha ha just kidding I don’t have a wife
not because I murdered her or anything, just because. Some days I need to think
I do. Some days I need to write about my urge to bring harm to her.
Is this common? Is this a normal male thing to feel?
Homeless guy with a bashed-in face bangs on the window with a fairly
nice-looking umbrella. It takes so much energy to hold in
this can I call it rage? I’ll call it rage. This rage. You can’t
act out on it either though. Is sublimation the only viable solution?
Look at her lying there, sleeping so still she may as well be dead.
There was an animal but I vowed to no longer write about animals.
Enough is enough she said, and she was right. I wish I could though.
This particular animal was doing something kind of interesting.
It would give me pleasure to tell you about it. Secrets give me
no pleasure at all. They just add to the repression. Weed-choked rails.
Sound of a car alarm going off, something you never hear this far
out of town. In the daylight you can see the trampled leaves
where the teenagers lay last night, you can see the things they left
strewn amongst the crushed leaves.
There are little scabs on the wall where the tendrils once clung.
There are marks on the road where the tires scraped the asphalt.
My wife’s eyes are like those scars, those skid marks. Both dead and alive,
leaves withering, pretending to be hurt. Love never comes into it, I’ve never
loved anyone in my life, only you
something pinned to the sky