"His Mind is a Slaughterhouse" 8.14.02
My best friend's mind is a slaughterhouse.
That's what I told him when I left him there,
at the corner of Tulsa and Holly.
He stood still, holding a megaphone and reciting his favourite poem
(the one about the bullies and the streetlights
and the speeding cars).
He was a sort of drug, I believe,
in times of mist and mud puddles and
extreme weather that, deep down, killed a part of me.
I'd never let him make me numb.
I spoke with screaming eyes and he answered
with a certain degree of twisted humour or tortured peace.
He called himself on that peace, and yes, tortured.
I smiled a worried smile, said a prayer,
and drove away so quickly that the world stood still around me.
'Now THAT'S drama,' he mouthed through the smokey glass.
That's when I saw that he was invisible, just as he wished
all that time ago; back in the doorway of his living room.
The world had dulled him as he faded out slowly.
Awhile ago, he got a tattoo. I don't know what of though.
I don't think it means that much to him.
It's a mark on him that just hangs there like that trenchcoat
suspended in a murky closet;
like all those war-time stories of the scars
he hasn't even come to know like family.
Even I know that I'd never hold the knife that gave him those scars.
I would BE the knife that gave him those scars.