Jim Trainer

The Morning After

In Uncategorized on November 8, 2012 at 1:29 pm

-for Baker

Streamers blowing blue, cascading down on smiling faces beneath the lighted ball. A palpable salve, shared in our hearts.  Something was over. Something was beginning. We could feel it. My black dove she beckons with her fingers for me to follow. She’s heading towards the stage. I follow. Just beneath the podium she turns to smile and then she disappears. The sudden wall of shoulders and arms in suits and beady eyes behind dark glasses. I’m close enough to hear what these men are hearing through their earsets, what they’re saying into the sleeves of their suit jackets. I can hear it and although I can’t quite understand it I know its bad.
I’m whisked through the kitchen. The white&black cooks standing back, standing down. The Mexican dishwashers-same. The double doors kick out into the November night. The cold tears into me. I’m forced down to my knees in front of the blaring headlights of an SUV idling in the puter cold. The weight and the specific hardness of a muzzled barrel pressing into the base of my skull.

I close my eyes and fall through new world barrios full of jungle heat and madness, they reek of cheap sex&life and blood and lust and murder-I’m moving down long lines of beaten faces, sallow faces of eastern european men standing in line down the block beneath a bleak&black winter sky-suddenly I am in a baking, clay-walled hovel where the man sits prostrate, kneeling in front of his magazine clips and Koran-I continue falling down the shores of the dirty river into a different desert town-I’m looking down at the child, the tape at stubby ends of his arms blown off above the elbow, the brown skin of his abdomen burned white, scarring and flaking off, the unholy terror in his eyes cutting me like a scythe until I cannot bear to look anymore.

I’m jarred awake. She’s lying across my middle. There is a Lonestar big-boy somehow still clutched in her sleep-stiff hand. The sun slices into the room and down the middle of my hangover painfully. The room is trashed. The morning radio-alarm jars me again. The chirping tones of liberal radio fine tune and screw my headache into pure yellow pain that shoots straight down to my stomach.
I push her off and make it to the bathroom.  I sit on the bowl and listen to the morning news, the chirpy announcer sounding quite pleased with herself as she segues into the sounds of a roaring and cheering crowd.

What a nightmare.

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