i was holding back a bit, thinking too much, this is the worst. it is best to let go. look at yourself, your faults, your successes, and accept. it is what the doctor tells you if you are terminally ill. go home, make the best of your time. best to give up and play again if you find yourself losing the game. play games with those around you who are of equal strength, everyone will have more fun this way. it is fun to rally. to hit the ball back and forth, to miss each pitch is no fun.

brent put too much hot sauce on his chips and they were awful. the joy of feeling a bit of spice was lost with the pain of too much. he has been in the sun too much at times as well, provoked his wife too often and never edited his works. could have been something, could have been a nice leisurely walk. could have held back those words, taken that opportunity, stopped the car at the right moment. put down the drink a bit earlier, not overdid it so much, he will pay for that, perhaps already has.

i like to get right to the edge and peer over. to feel fear a bit each day, to do something i know i shouldn’t do, but not too much of it. to bend the law, not break it. white lies, quick glances, skipping work, putting in just the right about of gas in the car, saying just enough. i dont want to burn my mouth, but i also do not want to feel nothing. so much to say, still more to hide. a seesaw is life. looking for a balance. each day, each hour in each friend and in each moment.

The Shoelace

a woman, a
tire that-s flat, a
disease, a
desire: fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still
you can study them
like pieces on a
chessboard…
it-s not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he-s ready for, or
murder, incest, robbery, fire, flood…
no, it-s the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse…
not the death of his love
but a shoelace that snaps
with no time left …
The dread of life
is that swarm of trivialities
that can kill quicker than cancer
and which are always there –
license plates or taxes
or expired driver-s license,
or hiring or firing,
doing it or having it done to you, or
roaches or flies or a
broken hook on a
screen, or out of gas
or too much gas,
the sink-s stopped-up, the landlord-s drunk,
the president doesn-t care and the governor-s
crazy.
light switch broken, mattress like a
porcupine;
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at
sears roebuck;
and the phone bill-s up and the market-s
down
and the toilet chain is
broken,
and the light has burned out –
the hall light, the front light, the back light,
the inner light; it-s
darker than hell
and twice as
expensive.
then there-s always crabs and ingrown toenails
and people who insist they-re
your friends;
there-s always that and worse;
leaky faucet, christ and christmas;
blue salami, 9 day rains,
50 cent avocados
and purple
liverwurst.

or making it
as a waitress at norm-s on the split shift,
or as an emptier of
bedpans,
or as a carwash or a busboy
or a stealer of old lady-s purses
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks
with broken arms at the age of 80.

suddenly
2 red lights in your rear view mirror
and blood in your
underwear;
toothache, and $979 for a bridge
$300 for a gold
tooth,
and china and russia and america and
long hair and short hair and no
hair, and beards and no
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no
pot, except maybe one to piss in
and the other one around your
gut.

with each broken shoelace
out of one hundred broken shoelaces,
one man, one woman, one
thing
enters a
madhouse.

so be careful
when you
bend over.

Charles Bukowski