"mortshame, part deux"

march 16th The disgusting object I pulled from under my roominghouse bed was...a telephone book. And as I drank a beer or twenty I leafed through it (this is the first and only sick time I did this) for the listing of the young man whose suicide I'd just cleaned up. I wanted to see if I could conjure up his voice on the answering machine in his former front room. I dont know why...for more sad knowledge. But JESUS H CHRIST saw fit to give me a shock. A distraught woman's voice answered the phone. This must be maman? "The mother,standin in the doorway with her arms open, the cross the true shape of a tortured woman ...lettin her sons no longer presidents, but prophets. They're gonna run through the fields dreamin the true shape of a tortured woman " -Patti Smith from the album, "Horses " Arista I muttered after an unnatural moment. Something earthly and confusing. "Is Bob there?" and likewise SHE, in agony, processed this question and responded, "uh...no...you must have the wrong number." "Oh, I'm sorry". Click. Allow me to butt out. I lay back on my miserable sagging bed. One long tear streaming from each eye. Who is travelling...the boy or the mother? I was right about these last recent snow flurries. It's springin up green all over at the roots outside. "Here comes le sol" .You know what I'm talkin about. If they don't let me out on time I'm a goin to Boulder Community Hospital in les disaster pouch (the term, "body bag" has long since passed in the funeral industry). You hear me? I'll hold my little dirty hard plastic drinking cup to my head and tumble through space and time (yes, about 2 seconds) until my CRASH leaves chards of coffee stained plastic all through my brain. Coroner John Meyer can wash my DICK right there on the same table he used for les autopsies on JBR, Sus. Chase, John Flach, and "Mad Dog" Simpson. (I hear I've switched "channels" so to speak, in cyberspace, and can now spell words the right way. "Fuckin A, dudes." "One little, two little, three little PLA's" J.T.Colfax [email protected]   current | 1999 | 1998 | colfax diaries