Living The Exhale
I’m snapping my fingers. I need a hit. I show up at my brother’s house, him and his wife, dressed like fags, they’re looking at my fingers like there is something they want to do with them, all nasty, with their purple scarves. Damn fags.
All I want is the Kawasaki, just give it to me. My fingers kinda hurt. From snapping em too much. His voice is a smoke alarm. I want to tell him: look dude, just give me the bike so I can trade it for drugs. Back at my middle finger. Left. Corner of the counter and a stupid potted plant. If it ain’t pot, what’s the point. Then right. His pictures. Ugliest wife...he could’ve married....someone hot. She’s not....anything & he’s counting something on his hands. Time to nod. O.K. what now? I’m scratching my finger-it’s flaky- he is rambling rambling like he has since the day he found out he was the older brother.
Why he thinks he can take care of me with his tucked-in khakis & tie, princess scarf, and a nickel in his penny loafers. A nickel! If it ain’t a dimebag what’s the- whatever dude, he’s wagging his head. No. My hands are erupting. The pain is coming- like every bone is, is sweeping lava-someone steps on your spine until it’s lodged in your throat like, like that chicken bone he choked on-I saved your life and you’re saying: No, I am a fag, over a crappy bike!
I am screaming. My nails are bleeding, his eyes are whiter. Blood on his tie. I am kicking his door frame, throwing rocks at his car. The mailbox gets pushed down and thrown into the street somehow. I hitch home.
J.R. Pearson lives in Dalton Gardens, Id with his wife and two pups (he uses the dog angle to publish his work). He wears a single pair of jeans for a week at a time, believes fleas are lucky, & cries every time Jack Gilbert writes about Michiko. In the end he’s just like you or me only smells worse, never shaves & ultimately lives in his own filth. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming online as well as in print from Tipton, Cherry Blossom Review, ditch, The Houston Review, Dogzplot & many more. He is a member of an experimental group of collaborator’s called Orzel Transtextual Poetry which engage in, among other things, combining Flarf with real-time emotions. He was born in Lansing Michigan and still dreams of the Great Lakes.