Saturday, November 12, 2011


I injured my finger badly today grappling with a man in japanese pajamas.
When I moved to sweep him back off his feet my middle finger cracked backward at the second knuckle. Looking at it now I was afraid to type those words and I became more and more certain that as I wrote the word cracked (and again the worry!) the finger would be snapped sharply backward by some unseen force.
The night is rather cold compared to the afternoon and after an evening of fighting and drilling I coughed as I rode my motorcycle.
The pain of squeezing the clutch lever was startling and I gasped like a child again, gasping at that big new pain. The cold sank right through my jacket and even my hood tucked into my helmet. The strongest finger of my left hand had become suddenly nothing but an obstacle. I shivered and winced, my mouth working, trying to keep my taped middle finger straight in a closing hand, a working hand keeping me alive, in a gardening glove too thick for it.
I began to notice the loveliest, sweetest, sexiest sounds resonating inside my helmet and realized right away that it was me moaning and shivering, whining and gasping over the grind of the throttle; I sucked my lips and it occured to me quite suddenly that at least some among the rich were already seriously planning to abandon the rest of the world by fleeing to their fleet of armored pleasure boats and islands. Perhaps returning to fortified ports for medicine and supplies.
This thought did not make my finger feel better, no not at all. Then again, the rich aren't not fuck-ups.


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