i posted this poem in friendster sometime in early 2007. the post was originally entitled "a phase from the past."
you could interpret this in several ways, my dear reader, but it's not a psychotic rambling, that's for sure. this was inspired by a series of events that spawned a dead pinkie fingernail, believe it or not. maybe i shouldn't have included this paragraph in this entry in the first place, and leave it up to you to make sense out of this piece. but i included it anyway, so what the hell, right?
this is dedicated to my friend, P. i apologize, as there's still no definite guitar accompaniment for this piece - something hazy-sounding might be appropriate. maybe i need to be in an altered state of consciousness to figure it out - i don't really know for sure.
purple
the big bang of your car's door
nearly severed this finger.
i bled
without blood.
spitting,
i left
without
saying anything.
screaming did not even occur to me.
now, i’m telling you how it stings.
it stings
every five seconds.
every five seconds,
i complain like a drunk.
i am being redundant,
i am redundant,
this is redundant.
purple fingernail will not be pink.
if last night ended with laughter,
we would be somewhere else.
if last night was an accident,
this would be unsaid.
but it did not,
and was not.
if i gave you the last one,
these words would be gone.
they would be spaces
in some tree,
some tree that accidentally
became paper.
they would not be
if you managed
to laugh last.
it’s just that
i didn’t want to give it up,
the last laugh, i mean.
and so it went.
shouldn’t have tried
to cover your mouth,
but it’s too late,
the door caught me
on my way out.
it looks black
but it does not mean it’s black.
i’m pretending it’s beaten up.
it’s dead,
it’s dead!
but i don’t seem to get it,
i don’t get it.
i don’t take it.
they say the dead can’t feel.
bleeding doesn’t mean
blood-spitting.
you don’t need
blood to bleed.
scars need wounds,
healing needs affliction,
like people need fiction.
faceless,
this scarred finger, faceless.
this little scar is faceless.
a scar in search of a face,
obscure, ignored
does it matter?
scary, these hidden wounds.
they are not accidents,
they are not accidents.
but futility’s reinforcements.
mic
october 8, 2003
