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Volume XV – Replaced with Oct. 3rd
Today was the day Dr. Ackermann
was to take off the fourth and final
cast. Ten fucking weeks, the longest
I’ve ever been plastered, my first
surgery, this ruptured Achilles
is fucking killing me!
Soul Coughing plays
I sit in my truck at lunch
alone
We went out
on Friday.
Friday.
I sat my cast
on a plastic lawn chair
outside Matt Denny’s.
Regular blonde waitress.
The (step-)daughter was in town
trying to kick a Meth habit
“Right!?! She came to L.A.
to kick a drug addiction!”
that’s what I said
with an overabundance
of knowledge.
He added one of his friend’s
daughters to the story
in his little hotel room
and the scene got much worse,
Girls Gone Wild worse.
No, he didn’t touch
his exposed (step-)daughter.
God, did we laugh!
What the hell else
ya gonna do?
I had him in tears
with my, to quote
the surgeon and staff,
'worst orthopedic injury
possible without
shattering something.'
"The sponge baths
only last so long
‘til she’s scrubbin
your dick like a dish
and your nuts like they’re
the underside of a toilet."
Fuck he was laughing,
tears rolled down
his cheeks and he was
convulsing over the table
pounding it with his big
clumsy hands.
The cast came off
A Vicodin
Endless bong hits
depression lifting
White Russians until
I feel creamy
more Soul Coughing words
come all at once, go together
massive events
or something smaller,
a single poetic thought:
This was supposed to be
October third,
the day my recovery began,
not October third
the day The Judge was found
dead
in his hotel room,
a semi-old man
in a bathroom of blood
unable to keep it in
anymore.
All of your torment, Judge,
all of your, “That’s [the injury]
gonna stick with you forever.”
One last time,
I’d like to say,
J.T., you mother fucker.
If your presence in my life
hadn’t changed me forever,
I would miss you.
I’m drinking double scotch
on the rocks tonight
and wondering
if some people just don’t
want to see a guy heal.
* - written: 10/3/2
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