telling the truth can be a motherfucker
when you’re staring at a fourth-empty fifth of Wild Turkey
well really half-empty

and your mind calls
and asks how your bruises from the accident feel
and keeps talking and saying everything will be fine
just another something to overcome and that you’ll overcome it
and you’re staring at the Wild Turkey
thinking what a fucking turkey you are
trying to agree with your mind with as few words as possible
mostly yeahs and uh-huhs
so it doesn’t hear you slur
then trying to communicate with silence
that you’re really busy so that eventually your mind will let you go
before it actually asks the question that it called to ask
and it finally let’s you go without asking
but now you’re asking yourself the same question

feeling all this shit from the first time you ever breathed
shit that you can never control
never could control --

other people’s shit
your father’s drunken face screaming and blowing spittle at you
little white kids calling you dirty indian
saying they hate you and showing you how much by rolling your coat in dog shit and chanting ugly names at you

your own shit
insomnia compulsive eating too much intelligence and not enough wisdom
highs that make you look like a freak because you’re so fucking high on biochemicals you could crack jokes at a funeral
lows so low that you can’t get out of bed and when you finally do you go into this psychotic zone where you start mutilating your arm with a piece of glass thinking your blood is paint, your arm canvas, and that all you’re doing is painting a picture, humming as you do this crazy shit --

then you start trying to hide from the question
start reaching for the Turkey
because you know if you give an honest answer
it won’t be the same answer you gave your mind.

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