I found out some things that sent me off the deep end, and I made the typically American decision to solve my problem with a gun.
I drove around the Arizona valley with two guitars lying across the backseat of my car: a black Gibson SG All American series, and a beat-to-shit Fender Mustang. The only things I owned of any value.
The guy at the pawnshop said the guitars weren’t worth anything, not even in trade for the cheapest handgun.
I stood outside the pawnshop, pissed off and sweating, formulating a new plan.
Obviously once I found a gun I would have to come back and shoot this dumbfuck before I could get down to the business of shooting myself.
Anger could be an unlikely lifeline, and there was always something to be angry about in those days.
James Hippie is the author of the novel The Punk Called Rock and the short story collection Terminal Jive. His writing has appeared online at Zygote in My Coffee, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Terror House Magazine.
Your eyes are narrowed, Red-rimmed and bloodshot. Your breath smells of yeast and rotten meat and you’re wearing the smile that chilled Red Ridinghood to the bone. I’m backed into the corner of my chair, spine straight, frozen. Hoping if I sit still enough, I’ll become invisible and your words won’t pounce, but it’s too late.
It’s my fault for not reading the Weather Report, not noticing the size of the amber waves washing down your throat; for forgetting the undertow that follows and now I’m caught in it and drowning in the depths of Shadows I didn’t create.
come morning
I’m trying to make myself small. Curl in on myself until I exist only in theory. Until your anger can’t touch any part of me that’s real.
I’m lost. Like an animal in a corner, I’m bristled and high-strung. Alert. Weary. I’m exhausted from living on the edge but I don’t know how to back down. How to save myself, let alone anyone else.
But you’ll never see me cry because I always remember to leave the rose-colored glasses on your nightstand. And come morning, I’ll be all smiles.
my hill
I’m tired of waking up To brush the taste of rage From my teeth and tongue. How many times Can I regret All the words Spoken and swallowed Before I have to admit The problem is me?
But I’m waging Another private war. Forcing everyone to walk Over minefields As they pass. Turning the house Into a battlefield Filled with tight, Forced smiles.
I drink too much To dull the anger And the rage. I drink too much To stop thinking About plans of attack. I drink too much And wall myself in With empty bottles- The berm of a foxhole Dug in the shape Of my own grave.
My dad always told me Some hills Weren’t worth dying on. I think he got it From a movie, But every morning I stand before the General In the mirror, Brush my teeth And wonder If I’ve found that hill, Or if tonight Will be another chance To find out.
Chris Dean is a poet and spoken word artist from the heart of Indiana, where they live with their husband. Recent works have appeared in The Whiskey Mule Diner and The Blue Motel Rooms.
