You don’t hold much in your hands. Usually, its nothing. Sometimes, its a drink, a fork with some food, a ball or a remote. Other times its a baby, or a woman, or a gun. Sometimes, what you have in your hands can change your entire life, and sometimes what you you have in your hands makes no difference to anyone at all.
It doesn’t take much to bring a man down. It takes a lot to bring him back up. Men are killing their families because of debt, of the economy, politics, failure and hurt. They walk from bedroom to bedroom, stabbing or shooting or asphyxiating their blood for no good goddamn reason. They are weak. They are washed out of the world.
Its way past the time normal people would be strolling the neighborhood. In one hand, a smoke, in the other, nothing. Not yet. The footfalls scrape against asphalt. I walk down the middle, looking left and right. I check out each car. Flashing red lights telling me to walk on, brother, walk on. At night, I feel like I own the town. There’s not a soul. A cat. A nest of coons. House after shiny home, cars lined up in driveways and garages, families tucked in deep. Doors locked and hearts at peace. Click, click of a old soul on the porch, lighting up. I walk on by, giving a silent nod though he can’t see me.
I wear the only pair of jeans I like. Ratty, tearing at some places, loose, used, historic. Sneakers on my feet. Cheap things. I think of being noticed. Then I remember none of these people think it’ll happen to them. A laser light of rage and anger sweeping into their eyes, burning the back of their skulls, just because it can. They’d second guess anyway. They’d wonder what was the right move. They’d take time, precious time, and work it out. They have things. Things to lose. Things to covet. Things to keep secret. I don’t. I’m not afraid. I don’t hide anymore.
I wear patches of pain upon a skin worn by a child. Ideas pass by and get stuck, damming up the river, creating choke points. I push and dig and obsesses over getting it done. I forget that water, nature, finds its way around everything. It created the mountains that tower over me. The riverbeds where the city gets its name. It created the trees I sit under. The fingers which fidgets with my pocketknife. The flow will go on, with or without my unwanted assistance. Its always been that way. It’ll always be that way.
There is nothing that can change the skin, the river or the eyes that prefer the dark to the light. That need to hunt and watch and climb above the back and forth of a life forced on everyone by uppers and betters and old dead men with old dead thoughts. We do what we have to do to survive. To live. To live beyond. I do this. I tap the items in my pocket hoping one night, something will come along. But I can wait. I have all the time in the world. There are more patches to sew on. More streets to walk.