Duke University - Chanticleer Yearbook (Durham, NC)

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My ass hurt, but othervri.se I felt good. I had consaanunated someone ' s fantasy, Brothers, I shouted lauding, you ' re not going to believe this, but I love you, Put a slug in the motherfucker ' s head, one of them said, Let ' s get out of here, said another, I wanted them to know that they had shot themselves. They left. So they didn ' t know how to circle dates on their calendar: birthdays, anniversaries, places in time where we all connect, I dragged my bleeding ass to the infirmary, My God, what happened to you? a black physician ' s assistant wanted to know, I shot myself, I told him, Ri t, And I ' m the Pope, the guy said. You just lie down on your stomach. This is going to hurt. The buckshot falling from his tweezers into a stainless steel dish beat the rhythm to Billie Holliday ' s Stormy Weather. It was raining. Every little thing I ever had was gone. Soon even the buckshot was gone. Back on the street, my fingers felt like I had lost my gloves. I wanted a horn. With my last twenty bucks I bou t a trombone from Sam ' s Pawn Shop. The sheet music to Hot Cross Buns was in the case with my horn. That ' s where I started. A month later I was working out some glider flints throu heavy turbulence in Back Door Man. Outside it was quiet; one of those days you ' re afraid to put your hands on, like wet paint. Big broken notes flopped out of the bell and rolled around the floor. Every once and a while I swept them up and put them in half full bottles of tequila, like tarragon in vinegar. At ni t I ' d drink the mixture, using cocaine for salt and guavas instead of lemons. I still ate shit.

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K on ' ' ' ' ' i