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numb the day
the fog starts to thicken
in the morning and a
writer from maine licks
his chops
i roll over in bed and
wonder why the pillows
aren’t showing me any
affection
that’s not cocaine on
the night stand, that’s
dust
the left knee locks up
every morning now
there isn’t enough alcohol
to put in the coffee to
numb the day
those endless opportunities
of my youth were wasted
like usual
an old friend lives by the sea
i know if i go visit him, we’d
both get drunk and then see
who could swim the farthest
i have no interest
in that kind of death
i’d like something so brutal
dental records won’t even
help identify the body
i figure i’d be saving the
family the money needed
for a cremation
a random day in america
a purple daydream gets interrupted by
gunfire
just a random tuesday in america
i try to never piss off the old people
they don’t have that far to carry
that grudge
here comes the rain, cold and endless
i’d like to curl into a ball and be like
a cat and see where i could lick
i hear a mariachi band playing in
my dreams
a lovely senorita is dancing and then
throwing her drink in my face
cheap tequila
i wouldn’t drink that shit either
pain is an amusement park ride where
your ass is too big for the seat but they
strap you in anyways
thirty minutes away from forever
her arms never looked so far away
before
you think of a car accident from years
ago and a black woman screaming
she thought you had died
what a beautiful day
in all the pain and misery
and somewhere between
two deep breaths you
realize she never loved
you
what a list that has become
after all these years
and sure
a few good ones slipped
right through your fingers
but the majority would
have killed you before
you could have any fun
all you ever wanted was
to be loved and broken
in two
left to create beauty in all
the pain and misery life
tends to shovel on you
like shit,
like roadkill,
like the coal in your
grandmother’s basement
the house where you were
molested and learned how
to use a butcher’s knife to
get your way
there really is only a path
or two to go from that
childhood
these sad state of affairs
were honestly to be
expected
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is stuck in the suburbs, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Synchronized Chaos, Horror Sleaze Trash, Cajun Mutt Press, The Beatnik Cowboy, and Jellyfish Whispers. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, Evil Delights.