What do you keep in the barrels of your backroom? The ones you nail shut and forget about? How many versions of people do you store there? Does the sexual prowess of uncles, brothers, fathers and lovers have a home there?
How many barrels have we filled to protect those we love? How much pain do we lock away there? Does all the hurt in the world end up there? When you question God, when you question our culture, our government, our life, why he put his hands elsewhere… does that doubt take up residence in that enclosed darkness?
Do we nail up the survivors too? Do we forget about them because they keep moving? Because they go on with life? Do we lock away the idea that somewhere inside them they’re hurting?
Can you tell me what sort of nails you use? Because… they must be very special nails to keep all that pain from pouring out.
Tell me what makes a man so special that you’d store a dau...
The gypsy found the chasm and down she went. Feeling like Alice on a heavier day. Bright lights and sparks. Boots and tamberines.
She fell so hard. Carrying all those things that she carried. The things we all carry. The jingle and the jangle and the glitter that weighs like mountains. The power in a voice and how it makes you a God.
How sometimes they called you a Queen but then they forget and the glitter fades.
The bottom wasn’t as dank as she worried. There was no dormouse or white rabbit. Just the sputtering of white dove wings.
Illusions. All illusions and nowhere to run.
A laced hand placed against a mirror. A beat of a drum. The hum of falling to the other side. And in the peripheral the outstretched smirk of a Cheshire cat. Larger than the sun.
The wonder and the wandering your mind does. How they said the masses were weapons and they were coming for who you weren’t.
To him, food is not medicine. Medicine involves Budlight, a bottle of Jack Daniels and a multipack of vitamins you get off the counter at the corner store.
He says those vitamins keep him healthy. I’m sure they are simply a rainbow of fancy colors and as void of anything helpful as the bottle is.
It is his illusion.
Thanksgiving dinner starts with an appetizer of Crown and Coke. The main course is that 24 pack he lugged in. By the time football starts you’ll be able to smell him before you see him. Hear him from across the house.
Tell me why I can’t find the courage to pick up the phone between holidays but the moment I smell him I wish I was near him more.
Tell me why I secretly enjoy the way alcohol pours from his pores. The sourness and the sweat.
Tell me why the smell of drunk is synonymous with Dad.
Tell me why I want to smell drunk all the time but can’t dial his number.
Tell me why I know those vitamins are placebo. But whenever I see them I buy them and I take them anyway.