Maybe if you paid a little closer attention you would notice the inconsistencies that ate my story.
But you zone out on the smallest details.
Cause If you looked a while longer you woulda seen how I missed the last step and had to start all over again.
If you looked a while longer you woulda seen how I missed the last step and twisted my right ankle and bit my tongue and screamed.
And then my left.
You were listening to Jesus preach at the time I sang a song to explain my mood.
Apathetic.
Copasetic.
You didn’t even make me groan.
Satisfied at most.
Most of the time that I was climbing shrubbery in Auntie’s apple-butter yard, you were out back shooting the breeze with that minor detail neighbor girl who never showed her fancy shoes again after that day that I told her how minute she was.
In this world at least.
Your obsession with Jaques Causteu plagued you and I watched through big lenses for the way you pulled at your hair and struck your yellowed temple with the tiniest of pencil tips.
I always waited in the corner as you got your kicks vomiting up your last meal or thought or shitty liquidy meal or thought in shitloads on the back of the old Volkswagon.
I was listening to Jesus on tape.
When you told me to.
I know I never listened on my own.
But then again you never bopped to my pop.
Maybe if again I said maybe if again I said maybe if again I said maybe if again like
iffff
you would turn
Your neck
And twist your lips and repeat
“if?”
But you zone out on the smallest details.
Cause If you looked a while longer you woulda seen how I missed the last step and had to start all over again.
If you looked a while longer you woulda seen how I missed the last step and twisted my right ankle and bit my tongue and screamed.
And then my left.
You were listening to Jesus preach at the time I sang a song to explain my mood.
Apathetic.
Copasetic.
You didn’t even make me groan.
Satisfied at most.
Most of the time that I was climbing shrubbery in Auntie’s apple-butter yard, you were out back shooting the breeze with that minor detail neighbor girl who never showed her fancy shoes again after that day that I told her how minute she was.
In this world at least.
Your obsession with Jaques Causteu plagued you and I watched through big lenses for the way you pulled at your hair and struck your yellowed temple with the tiniest of pencil tips.
I always waited in the corner as you got your kicks vomiting up your last meal or thought or shitty liquidy meal or thought in shitloads on the back of the old Volkswagon.
I was listening to Jesus on tape.
When you told me to.
I know I never listened on my own.
But then again you never bopped to my pop.
Maybe if again I said maybe if again I said maybe if again I said maybe if again like
iffff
you would turn
Your neck
And twist your lips and repeat
“if?”
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