(counts away)

My brain is the ebb on a primitive shore, stealing off to sea the last gasp of civility left brewing, unused, for years.

And from the fuzz of a midday drunk i seem to have nothing but nerves left about the days ahead. the pain. the scars. the color of blood running my down sagging frame.

Sometimes i wonder why i do these things. other times i don't bother looking for answers when i know the outcome is well worth and shakes that might ensue. or so i'll tell myself when i wake up in the morning and my body's changed forever (at least until i'm cinder survived by unnamed kin).

What the hell, though.

There are worse rewards for living than tattoos along old scars. particularly when they mark something as astounding as that explosion that streaked the sky so many years ago or the arm that cradled my life.

What's at work inside me.