How to tell fraud from fact: pH strips; switch gears with boxcutters frequently enough to keep them dancing Pesci with the barback, the stars, and the key players swimming in the deep sea. My gloves are matador maimers. They slide across the grease to make martial beats.
How to tell fraud from fact: this year is the first year my judgment started slipping…sitting in the empty corner of an off-season sports bar, on-edge, feeling like Chris Kyle after round three. My hard gloves shredded, falling apart at the seams, shoestring nerves, intuition shards. I can see my reflection in the gloves.
Well past round three and dead tired of sweat-blind afternoons in this empty corner keeping watch. Who doesn’t want me dead? The list, I lost track. Smudges on number two, number twelve, number twenty-three. Once upon a time the smudges were names I kept an eye on. I forget their names, or why I had to keep an eye on them. Which day am I living in…afternoon? Hard to read the list with sweat in my eyes. Hard to write down names with gloves on.
More about: Denzel Curry, JK The Reaper, Lunice, Nell
