New Years Day. I suppose I'm due to say something meaningful, but let's start off this year with a little bit of negativity.
I hate New Years Eve.
Granted, I do enjoy a good reason to go out and drink. I'm not as much of a partier as I used to be but I will admit that I can still go pretty hard when it comes down to it. I can't afford it, but you do what you can right? And I fully approve of ending the old year with a bang, celebrating what has gone before and opening up the wonderful possibilities that are coming up. All of that is great.
What I don't like is the tradition of the kiss at midnight. Sure, it's great if you've got someone or you're not afraid to randomly make out with a stranger, but it's kind of a bullshit tradition all the same. People wind up hurt.
Of course there's always the chance that I'm just a gigantic pussy and you shouldn't be reading my blog right now.
Here's a new poem. A prose poem even. I guess you could perform it too, if that takes your fancy. Well, I'd perform it. You keep your hands off of my shit.
It's based on an incident from my neighborhood a few years ago.
The street is in celebration, another sadness but violence still not the answer, just the coda before it all starts over again. Celebrating a life that was short, blood on a broken teddy bear while outside a gang war between sewage-fucked rats and pigeons erupts the battlers into drains and phone lines at a single gunshot, while missed targets drop their stash and burst through the door, calling to the family they left behind just long enough to hit the fix that isn’t coming anymore, a vein closed, aorta not pumping blood to a deadened heart. Wake up wake up wake that lasts til the dawn comes and then the street is clear, no rain, no melodrama HBO scene, but a sunny day as the tiny coffin is dwarfed by the hearse, last time to go for a car ride and in a chariot coming. Not there, we stand by, neighbors not knowing, never introducing, just getting pissed if a tricycle wound up in our yard and awkwardly leaving a bouquet on the street corner, cross fading in the next three years, and broken toys that the garbage men eventually take.