I’ve spent the last two years trying to figure out how to pull this trigger finger from my mouth and blast the sour blackness out into the sunshine.
I had been led across the melting ice by Ritalin-spiked pike bearers wearing garish grins and Nike Airs.
Spare me the walk and the pompous talk as if my ego couldn’t get any bigger, awkward mathematics don’t add up like self-made orphans trying to find father figures.
I didn’t really plan on coming to the disco so I decided to lash myself to the mast and brace for the face to face reconciliation of the bass with bearded sea captains and acidic rap.
And now I’m back from balmy islands with steadfast shanties whose tenants taught me how to seppuku with pen tips instead of pissing in the wind four flights up over the abyss.
I could never write accurately about this trip through the world of nomads who come from good homes and horny Ronin who only eat palindromes.
It’s over.
The part concerning form, I mean.
At least for the time being while I figure out how to slay the residual effects of watching Death Row inmates go through their daily exercise routines.
Even I don’t really know what I mean.
But I’m happy.
Happy that I sat on the stoop that evening and started stitching rhythms into my forearms and listening to the alien beats rising from a city I was destined to leave.
So,
thank you, miss Ana Carrete and
thank you for listening.
Taylor Han is a literature and writing studies student at Cal State San Marcos. He hopes to one day curate his own successful lit mag and welcomes submissions at www.visceralbusiness.
