Manny Furious


Deep and Gritty


Sometimes
I think I'd like to
write something deep and gritty. Something
about all the drug abuse and child abuse
and spousal abuse. Something
about the violence
emotional and physical
that was happening around me at all time.
The gray, cracked modulars
with warped decks and moldy
exteriors.
No lawn
just an occasional weed
exploding forth
like green lava
from a subterranean
geyser.
Dirt. Dust and devils everywhere.
Dirty dishes.
That smell.
You know that smell.
What a hamburger would smell like
if it had body odor.
hamburger sweat drying near the vents
where hot air blows out.
Dirty glasses, smudged
with god knows.
A little grit with your water. Old couches
that shriek when you sit on them
atrophied couch muscles, so you
sink.
It's hard to get back up.
Carpet colorless and
rattled.
Looks like it just licked it's finger and stuck it
in a socket.
Fake wood for walls.
Dusty sheets for curtains.
Closed at all times.
A single ray of sunlight
over the round kitchen table. A plastic tabletop
with empty beer bottles and remnants of the last few nights' dinners (frozen gas station burritos)
caked on the surface.

No thank you. I'm fine. Thanks for asking.
...
Where's your drunk dad?
...
Your mom's in a good mood
considering she has to walk around with that bruise over
her right eye.
...
Yes, it's typically this obvious.
...
No I'm not exaggerating.
...
Where's he keep his liquor?
...
Well if you don't mind taking the beating, I don't mind drinking.

I saw all of that. But it's hard to write
about something you only saw.
Just a dorky kid who liked to watch
silly movies about aliens and monsters and mafiosos.
That's how I spent most of my Friday nights until
I learned how to sneak out to get drunk.
15 years old or so.
A hot dinner in a clean house with real curtains.
Open curtains.
No need to have it concealed.
A smooth tabletop, with table mats
for each member of the family.
Clean dishes stacked in the drainer.
Tupperware full of chocolates
to eat after school.
On more than one occasion
I walked into my parents' room
as they were
'Getting it on'
so to speak.
Hard to write about.
Even harder to
forget.
Hard to complain about
when there's no
bruises over mom's right eye.
No liquor stash for my old man.
Just a carton of smokes.
Winstons mostly.
Memories of the raspy smell
or burnt tobacco still
soothes on those sleepless nights.

Back then
High school
Time to sit in a recliner, eat homemade tostadas and watch
another movie.
or

another episode
of

America's Most Wanted.

It's hard to write of the deep and gritty
when you only

saw

it.

Submitted: Monday, July 14, 2014

Topic of this poem: art


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