Eleven’s Always Too Late

Day Thirteen of Thirty Days of Writing

Photo by Kat Fossell

On the 25th of July I am glad its not Christmas. I remembered how to inhale cigarettes today, and a whole new kind of breathing opened me up. I haven’t showered in five days just as the doctor ordered. That one was for you, as a fly lands on my screen. It’s late instead of early or so I’ve been told by the stars. Never trusted them to keep the time for mere mortals like myself, but who’s to say I know anything?

All rhythm and no sense; that’s the prognosis. Tell me who you used to be and I’ll tell you who you are becoming. A couple I met at a make-shift ashram in the Windy City told me once that they never asked each other anything about before they met. “It’s our one rule.” I’ve never been much good at games so rules don’t come naturally. Whiskey makes my neck pop, not that I drink it anymore. “Everyone has to grow up sometime,” are some pretty good last words. Don’t hold me to that.

My muscles are tight — tighter than usual even. The eclipse is approaching rapidly and so we all buy glasses from the internet. No one likes a burnt out retina. Face-soup for all ages. What kind of box do you come in? Don’t play — you know we all have one ready-made and willing.

I had to sell everything, to see if it was worth anything. Turns out love is cheaper even than trust, and faith is the most expensive price to pay.

I might mess up the next line so close your ears. There was a pick-up truck, and someone threw a bong down the alleyway, and we all climbed that roof once and sang Sweet Caroline to the people desperately trying to sleep.

I know this is useless. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t remind me quite so often. It’s all in your eyes you know, every little bit of it.

If you’d let me write the story for you it would be so much happier but we both know no one would read it then. I’m not faking this address. I’ll do anything, even if you take all the money I scrubbed so many floors for. We both know that part is a joke anyway.

Eleven comes too late and twelve, well twelve just won’t stay no matter how much you want him to. A baker’s dozen if you have the extra time.

The light is finally blurring. I might be able to edit you out — but I don’t want to. No regrets, that’s the only rule I keep to and I keep up quite well. Like that coyote from the cartoons.

A meditation and a prayer. The only hurt you want won’t come from me, you’ve already decided to throw the bread to the raccoons and I am okay with that.

Stick to my words, give me this one last chance to be something more than tangential.