Malort

Some days you can muster up enough confidence to pick your own songs on the jukebox. Take a shot of malort no more than three years late. It’s been almost a week since Easter and you haven’t had any chocolate, have consumed more cigarettes than calories, Arnold Palmer like your Moses in the desert, and many things have come to pass. Pick White Stripes, LCD Soundsystem, Interpol, and The Divynles in that order. Dip out after the eighth “I Touch Myself” and head back to your brainspots, speckled all over the face you forgot to powder, uncomfortable on the unwiped toilet seat, the smell of tequila and shit holding up your nostrils in the beer light. Today, a pigeon will try to land on your hair. You tried to part yourself a different way. Get stuck with twenty minutes of a parade of bikes and wish you could pedal with them, behind the Lounge Guy with a speaker strapped to his back, and think of the good karaoke songs from last night. Think, “This is my statue.” Think, “These roads follow the patterns of pedestrians and glaciers.” At some point, the pronouns don’t seem to matter that much anymore. All have taken their keys out during the passing, the white t-shirts and darkened coats and the faces hidden under hats, the brown paper bags containing discretion, the mud still stuck on the bottom of the shoe. Empty feet and mp3’s waiting at the foot of the bed. Turn up the audio. Make the neighbors crazy. Make them ears not be so alone.

Previously published in The Legendary
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