Rendered Connectionless.

So glad that ain't me.
Remembering what being a city kid is like
as the dark renders my legs red
from the lights naming greasy bars

or noticing grit between your teeth
sort of like stopping to think about your words
not smiling, trying to figure out what's breaking
in your mouth--sure hope it aint my soul.

throw all my quarters in the jagged edged plastic cup
of the three black men playing five gallon buckets
on the corner--there's some man with a swollen face
ankle length peacoat, and some trophy fuck strutting beside
trying to relate to the guys with the buckets and the drum sticks

just shut up and give them some money--
"You guys are good" under my breath, sideways glance,
drop the change
walk away.
Sure hope it ain't my soul that's breaking.

Stopping to figure out how a piece of street got in my mouth
rattling between my teeth, rattling against my jaw
thinking of how that man's ribs ricocheted gun shots
as he fell backward in to the street,
and when the light turned green--
traffic went.

My light turns green, lock my doors,
haven't pressed the gas yet trying to figure out
what has broken--feel for my phone, for the cash I stashed away,
it's there.
tongue gliding around teeth, feeling for holes--
all of my ribs in tact--
and the flap of skin fits perfectly over the wound,
when I fell off the curb, I didn't expect it to reverberate
through skin to muscle to gristle to bone to lips to eyes to skull
and dear god, it hit my brain and
the flap of skin almost makes the hole look like a dark crescent moon,

the light is still green, people are passing--
but what. is missing?

I've got a hole in my memory and a childhood to fill it,
DAMN RIGHT I'd like to start from scratch--
I've got a massive HOLE in my memory and a WANT to fill it,
DAMN RIGHT,
I'd like to fill it with sounds of warmth

but those sounds
don't come from no where,
--and all roads lead back to it,
don't want to press the gas
afraid I might blink and end up back there,

moments like these I feel like a scared kid again,
ducked down in the backseat, on the bad side of town
I think I saw that man die that day
in the middle of the road,

and the light had turned green four or seven times
before the police came,

in a sink hole, think it is my soul
that's slipping--and if it goes, it goes.

but I won't blink, and i'll look for flaps of skin to cover it,
but i'm not backing down,
not, going, anywhere
until this gets settled.

(rd)