20 april 2008

yesterday a recovering meth-head showed me the healing needlepricks on the reverse side of his elbow; the place between his pointer and middle-fingers where he would shoot up on his worse days. he jokes about it now, showing me his red-eyed death-hugged mugshot, now friends with the old prison guard who will never forget his face. he's small, this healing man, his voice taller than six feet or even ten...

sometimes i'd like to get inside his head.

today i woke up with groggy thick grass on my breath. i thought about the indents in Small Man. it's not often that you see death and touch it, but yesterday those inverse-braille-bumps reminded me that death is every day. i read that skin and was hungry for life-- instead i went home and cut lungs with a smokeknife. i laid down and heard voices in the walls, felt like a blacklit dream with soft repeats. it's hard to reconcile my passion and an obsession, two polar strangers and the same.

the small man says it's easier to pass the time than to count the days. for me: the fine line between yesterday and today is the same tripfall consequential intake.