I need the sharpest of knives to slice this
epidermal anomaly from the trappings of my weak and aging body
Deep slices to the elbows, slow and tender slices to the knees
please scratch my legs until they bleed, thank you please
this betrayal of skin, the most hideous part of me
is a possession of the worst kind,
an internal itch I will never be physically able to touch
the P takes over my body, the quintessential tired host
it will never be free . . . as the crimson spreads far above the blood that boils deep within me
People will continue to stare,
invisibly pointing to my sprawling scarlet letter ‘P’
just another ugly ducking,
just another ugly waiting stranger hiding deep inside of me . . .
I hate this

It’s not only the way it feels,
it’s the way it makes me feel . . .
a conditional freak of
my own mind,
my own doing,
my own flesh and
candy-apple red blood,
and a host that lives inside of me . . .

It grows asymmetrical outside my body,
the unwanted lichens of all that I can’t bear
It’s only when I look in the mirror;
I am sadly reminded that it’s still there . . .

Someday perhaps it will leave me,
that time just isn’t right now
but
I still ask when, Dear God in heaven, when?
And I shall curse forever the very day it found me,
this visible demon of my flesh
I gladly let the steam cover the bathroom mirror
and for the moment,
I can put the thing to rest
Perhaps

To look at it, you would think it was just another normal boy’s bicycle but I knew better.
It was an off-brand that my father bought at an old store in town and I so loved it.
Can’t remember the name for the life of me but it was mostly fireball red and the fenders
had a bit of white detailing on the tips that made the overall effect one of ‘daredevil’ proportions.
It had a really cheesy gold sparkle banana seat, nicely padded for overall shock absorption.
The highlight was the handle grips which were a neon orange with black tiger stripes and tiger heads on the ends. Yeah, this was one serious machine, to me anyway.

I drove it everywhere: around the neighborhood, into the center of town, to the baseball field, the high school, my multiple girlfriends’ houses, the fruit stand for a classic Coke and a bag of State Line Cheese popcorn -
there wasn’t anyplace this thing wouldn’t go.
We used to build ramps to practice catching a little bit of airtime
and rode ‘sans’ hands whenever there were girls around.
We were daredevils and would try almost anything that gravity would allow.
You were nothing without your bike.
These days, you’re nothing without your FaceBook or MySpace page.
Funny how things change . . .

One day we decided to race down Harvard Street, a road right next to my house.
It had a bit of a downward slope and was an unforgivable gravel with asphalt road, rough as a lizard’s skin.
During the summer days we never had to worry about cars driving down the road because our fathers were all working and our Moms were at home doing whatever it was that Moms did.
We started at the top of Harvard Street and the first one to go all the way down,
around the cul-de-sac and back up to the top was the winner.
40+ years ago, the street seemed to go on for days.
I mean this was one long ass drag strip.
In reality, if I were to drive my truck down and up it today it would take all of about one minute.
At 15 M.P.H.

Someone yelled, “Ready? On your mark! Get set! Go!”

Off I went past the Gilbert’s house, whizzed by the Masterson’s, flew by the Pelletier’s before seeing the cul-de-sac ahead of me.
I was clearly in the lead and didn’t bother to slow down going into the nasty cul-de-sac.
The last thing I remember is hitting a patch off sand as my trusty bike slid out from under me.
My left forearm hit the asphalt as the rough road began chewing off my pieces of my skin.
My bike was wrecked and my left forearm and knee were bleeding profusely.
I left my poor and once awesome bike in the road and ran home in a bloody mess.
Winning would have been nice that day but having the skin back on my forearm would have been much nicer.
This was the day I learned and took to heart the phrase, “Winning isn’t everything.”
I omitted the last half of it for my own psychological benefit.
I did get another bike but it would never be the same.
Maybe that was part of growing up that I hadn’t counted on . . .

Posting this tonight for all the courageous men and women in Iraq and the world over.
Know that we pray for all of you and hope for your safe return.
I heard this song many years ago and it moved me to tears.
I’ve since found it to be a comforting song to listen to in times of need.
Sometimes I just want people to know about songs like this.
Tonight is one of those times.
I send this out to my niece Cait (I miss you dearly, kiddo)
and all those missing someone dear that is currently serving abroad.
Come home soon guys.
This song is by Steven Curtis Chapman.

*listen with headphones!

My daughters occasionally suggest that I watch a particular video that they find outrageously funny.
More often than not, I usually agree.
In this case, I did.
I’m currently in the midst of dealing with a lower back molar that has decided to kick my ass back to TimBuk2.
It will be violently extracted from my jawbone by this time tomorrow night.
I should be quite happy by then.
Or not.
The sucker waited to speak up one day into my four days off, the phucker.
Needless to say, it’s currently a bit difficult to write nevermind blog.
As a veteran blogger, I hate to see my visitors suffer needlessly.
Enjoy the video.
It’s funny as hell.
So, when molar extractions and YouTube videos meet,
I wonder if they say, “Can I get your number?”
At any rate, the video is much funnier that I should be tomorrow morning at 9:30.
I think I tied that together rather nicely, don’t you?