The Taste Of Gin

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life

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I recollect I recall the number to dial the name of the street the color of the house the number on the door the sound of the bell the high pitch sound of the creak in the floor that could not possibly be ignored the caterwaul sounds of quarreling mixed with cackling sounds of laughter the smell of cigars and cigarettes the vapor of rotgut liquor silhouettes of melanin murals knocking pictures off the wall shadows of figurines it's not a dream I recall these things actually happening like a stone crashing through a plate of glass shattering and shacking the sleep awake something hidden was taking place I dare not say a word of the secret recording embedded in my ability to remember the face in a laminated black and white photograph pressed in a old photo album I tried to destroy the film but it's indestructible it won't die it's too real to kill not even a pill is strong enough to stop the nerve from waking up nor potent enough to put it back to sleep it's like a scab if it's picked it's gone bleed like a bloody nose ever time I tell the inner me "don't pick at it" the inner me ignores the command it acts like it don't understand it keeps removing the scab