Last night I didn't make love
with a random stranger: actually, there was no fucking whatsoever. Last night I didn't trade breaths for procrastination, masturbation and/or self -humiliation. Last night I didn't have one too many; I didn't end up laying in the gutter after getting expelled from Crews and Tangos. Last night I wasn't disrespectful, reckless or unkind; I wasn't too real or too honest to those who can't take it. Last night I wasn't booed by 5 and half people at a spoken word open mic. Last night I didn't break the law; nobody cared to call the police on me. Last night I didn't pass out in the snow; I wasn't compelled to leap onto the subway’s railway; I didn't burn the bible or marked my arm with a 2nd Degree tattoo using an electric clothing iron. Last night I didn't crumble on a motel bed; or on a cell bed; or on a Toronto General Hospital shared room’s bed. Last night left no traces of dry puke on the pillow; no piss and/or shit on the mattress. It left no evidence of a swollen black eye in the mirror; left no penny tongue and no bio hazardous stink As a matter of fact I'm cleaner than ever: I'm immaculate like a Christian newborn after his baptism ceremony. The sheets exhale fresh laundry and, also, last night I properly brushed my teeth like mom and dad used to tell me to do. Nevertheless, I carry some kind of filth. But not a dangerous, criminal filth: It's just that last night there was no passion and this morning there's no love. It's just that this morning the radio woke me up singing top 40 songs and telling rigged news and yet I'm the one feeling like a liar. It's just that, since I'm a last night's survivor, this morning I'm rewarded once again, with the exciting task of unloading 12 ton trucks at 6am, of pushing hard cases around, of laughing along with my coworkers and their inane remarks; I by-stand among the other men, watching them fight over a misplaced bolt, feed their petty grudges, talk shit when the boss isn’t around. My trophies and medals are the hours creeping just to make me older but never really going anywhere. Last night, although my limbs begged for rest, I couldn't sleep 'cause I can't remember the last night I meant what I said or said what I meant; Last night the silent ceiling wouldn’t recognize any achievement of my own free will 'cept for what was conquered by my own misery. Last night I couldn’t recall how many nights have rotten way since I dumped myself into an industrial waste container. Anyways, I really, really don’t wanna sound like another bitching poet. It's just that, I wish last night the quarter moon had sung me her farewell song, so I wouldn't have to, once again, greet good morning to the face of shame.
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