In case you ever need to identify my
body in the morgue on a
television mini-series
or in the middle of a street
after I am sacrificed in the name of jihad:
I have a scar above my upper lip,
from the coffee table when I was three.
I think we were living in the trailer.
My right elbow was scarred on the pavement
after tripping and falling while playing
kick ball.
I have calcium deposits under my right eye from
a skull on skull collision with my
brother during a game of vacant lot football.
The most immense and amazing black eye resulted.
I have three scars on my right knee to
remind me of that long, dark night and
two sheared telephone poles.
I have calcium deposits under my left eye also.
I needed a bookend to match the other and
even out my face. I found it on the
fetal ground of higher education while drunken phantoms kicked me.
It was the second most amazing black eye of my life.
My right forearm displays the result of
punching out a store window, the knuckles
of my right hand the blossoms of flesh
meeting barroom mirror. Glass is not
really a suitable sparring partner.
I have a two inch scar on the back of my head
courtesy of cheap, cheating hooligans and a 2×4.
You won’t see that one unless my head has
been shaved for the sake of electrocution
or lobotomy. Don’t even start wishing.
The back of my right hand displays the
result of my rollover into the farm fields
of Mattituck, New York. It was not a very
deep wound, but it made for an impressive scar.
I lost the nail on my left big toe from
an untended, untreated infection. Man it
hurt when the dogs stood on that toe
or I dropped something on it.
The back of my left hand offers round
reminders of the proper way to flip
hamburgers in a frying pan. Away! Away!
I have a tattoo of Arthur Rimbaud
on my right biceps. No I am not showing you.
It is odd to think that I have inflicted far more pain upon myself
than life generally or the world in total has inflicted upon me
and
yet still I somehow cling to the belief that
life is out to get me, that the
world leans against me.
Given the empirical data cited
I think that these hypotheses could be wrong,
very, very wrong.
THE MIND ATTIC 