That morning coming home to Liz, the red haired devil painter I loved so much.
I saw a strangled showdown occur between two half wits.
They lived in some type of inconspicuous home.
You would’ve never known, but for their half drooling half comatose splays on the patio furniture and porch all day.
That sort of made you wonder I guess. I love the crazies though; they live in poems and songs self-made and informed. We should all be so lucky.
Anyway one of them was really going off, the other was laughing at him too which was just making the rage greater. It was early morning, warm, summer, Ontario.
I was up all night on something hard. Something, unnatural. Likely cut.
Later I found a close by vacant field, a lot. I wrote on a broken fence about how I would start a community garden there and we would over throw food banks of processed food and welfare supported starvation of the minds of tomorrow would stop.
I copied the poem onto a business card in my wallet for a food bank.
Those were fun and rough times. Many promises were made. Many dawn’s destroyed them. Evaporated blood stain, the angrier of the twos fist finally connected,
and the foolish one cawed like a fucking cartoonish crow sound, I swear I saw it all that morning.
I have dreams about that patch of the neighbourhood all the time, despite this being the only of two memories I have; the now-ex worked up the hill too I guess, in that hot pottery sweat shop.
It was run by one of the other kind of half wits, one of many I served at the country club during that 6 month banquet stint, the same course we drunkenly trespassed at night, or that summer crossed with some beer in a bag.
A shard of that moment stuck in the other. Nothing is ever shattered beyond some