Somewhere amongst the curled pages of a yellowing manuscript lies my truth; somewhere beneath broken Michigan heartbeats hides my story. And in the space between the division of those divorcing concerns, somehow I survive.
But, barely.
My mornings are partnered with throbbing afternoon hangovers; my nights are too often invested chasing after ghosts. Lingering translucent amongst the memories in all those windows; reflecting on shadows cast across Old Town alleyways. Straining to hear the echo of old laughter before the tin monsters steal the last of my hearing for keeps.
Because I can’t fucking remember the last joke she said to me.
Robbed of my favorite little hill by the blight of renewed expansions, I seek another sanctuary amongst strange geography. Slinking haphazardly across inconsistently patched asphalt. Dodging the rudeness of unexpected, penetrating high-beam headlights. The ones ultimately illuminating the embarrassing highlights of an ever-increasing ABV lowlife. The one stumbling to free himself from the piercing stab of screaming sirens out on the prowl.
I hide my itching wounds underneath layers of armour made of stitched black leather. Then sloppily medicate myself with more measured poisons. Transform myself briefly into the wavering imitation of that creature I admire most. Because not many people are lucky enough to ever see the city fox.
And I ache for the cushion of that anonymity.
But inside also bubbles the urge to scream out my name. To gekker an honest accounting of my presence here amongst the stale captivity of a capital city’s urban decay. To rage on the page the totality of my desires. And appetites. Then allow myself exhaustive collapse neatly within the comforting embrace of those necessary closing brackets.
Because objectively, I require that structure. Otherwise, I will just spin myself right off the fucking page.
Left on my own, I inevitably make all the wrong choices. But for all the right reasons.
Admittedly, things seldom add up in a way that I can comprehend. My sloshing brain isn’t wired properly to accept the enormity of those rapid additions. Even though my heart consistently breaks under the weight of all those lingering subtractions.
Muddling isn’t just for the drinks I consume, despite the wails of a floundering card of debt. I also treat naked metaphors the same fucking way. Because sloppy writing is often honest writing. And I want so desperately to smash some semblance of coherence into the abuse.
So I continue to pour it all out.
But somehow, I just end up a used up old man. A bruised and confused soul out stumbling drunk through Old Town. The brittle vulpes skeleton left wondering if anything will ever be green again. Or, healthy.
Because there is only a cold Michigan wind whistling through exposed bones. And the smell of seasonal decay hanging heavy, down along the river.
Headlights begin their hunt.
The suffering season is here.
I think it’s time to run…
