Stupid Knee

Rock show. Folding theater seat. Violent knee injury. Work the next day. Emergency room day after that. Orthopedist. Noisy magnet tunnel. Waiting. Making phone calls. Appointments. More waiting. Diagnosis. Propensity for knee dislocation. Over-pronation. Iliotibial band. Sports medicine is my favorite kind of medicine and my favorite kind of therapist knows the body like god. 7 weeks to walk straight. With a new dog. And no disability. Slow elevator. Taking the pooch for a limp and a poop. Crutches. Cane. Brace. Hobble. Painkillers. Ice packs. Netflix. Damn standard transmission. Thank god for friends. And physical therapists. Finally returned to the walking world. Fearful of everything dangerous. Salivating at the chance to tempt fate again. Gimmie the streets. Like impending disaster. Tastes like candy. Gravity is a myth and the air I’m immediately breathing may be a final act. So I’d like to play, please.

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10 Things Imma Someday Write About

1. A woman from the dark side with a Vader mask and baker’s apron, doling out decadence with a sharp-witted jaw and perfect venom.

2. Oh my word…Shock like a light socket right in the flesh. Oh your words…Shot me like a rocket like a frightened wretch.

3. There are so few muses nowadays, rare, inspired, quick little ghosts slipping from one night to the next.

4. Soaking with blood, her uterus feels like it’s going to rot out of her vagina. Her young child is a reflection of herself, hips about to beat the daylights out of boys and bring the dangerous night into their barely weened world.

5. Insipid urban creatures whose dangerous, mainstream oblivion driven by consumerism is somehow validated by parading their vapid little children around like shining badges of absurd, accomplishment.

6. Now that the illicit affair has become passing moments of cordials, the strange metamorphic shock is still in my bones.

7. Many times, recovery uses condescension as a weapon of survival in situations where sobriety wavers on the tipping point.

8.  Hard to imagine an entire generation that had to endlessly toil just to stay barely fed. Or a single mom with two jobs riding the city bus.

9. I was out of money by 11 o’clock, everything doled out and squandered, my pant legs had become quonset huts,  storing things like winekeys, straws cut for toots, lighters, cocktail napkins with directions or phone numbers, a jumbled mess of items spelling out a mystery about to unfold.

10. Oh good lord, boozer brain with an ineffectual, intellectual hat and cane, impish like a simp, implicit asinine behavior that can only be blamed by tortuous amounts of whiskey, oh, the carnage that remains!