skateboarding and Zen

Six foot half-pipe over in Williamsburg,
Down the street from the East Bay,
At so-and-so’s house, south of the highway,
Just east of the golf course and resort.
I borrowed a helmet and some pads,
I was gonna drop in no doubt,
Asked my boy Jeff what I was supposed to do,
Slam the board, ride the transition.
I was too stupid to be scared,
The crew was all there—Harry, Ian, Kevin,
We had some girls in tow—
Angie was the only one I knew.
I set up, pushed the nose down,
Thought I slammed it hard enough,
I landed on my back on the flat,
Slammed so hard it knocked me out.
Half-dreaming, half-awake, confused—
Saw a gateway to another dimension,
Saw a galaxy of stars above my head,
Didn’t recognize my own name.
“You alright, you o.k.?” someone said,
“Yeah . . . well . . . I suppose so.”
Out of body out of mind,
Outside of space and time.
I gave it up, I walked away,
Years later rediscovered with my kids,
The board was still in my blood,
Wanted to ride fast and high.
Three-foot quarter pipe over in Holt,
The kids and I checking out the metal park,
Decided to drop-in, time to do or die,
Minutes pass and I stand on the lip.
Envisioning my last big slam,
But this time I’m gonna land,
I slam the board and start to cruise,
Slow-motion collapse as I hit the flat.
Fell face forward I thrust out my arms,
Wrists bear the brunt of my body weight,
Palms shredded, wrists numb, board shot,
Had to roll to avoid getting hit on the rebound.
Z, Nan and E all come running over,
Arms shooting pain from forearm to fingers,
I gotta drive them home, gotta shake this off,
Another failed drop-in to add to my collection.
Tried to find my courage numerous times,
Would stand in position for countless minutes,
The longer I waited, the less likely I would try,
Couldn’t trust myself, trust the board enough.
I’ve tackled school districts and city hall,
Went head-to-head with wannabe skins,
Refused to be intimidating by bullies,
Fought for myself and my family.
But couldn’t even bring myself to even try,
When it came to dropping in I just gave up,
Never wanted to let go and give it a shot,
Just knew I would just maim myself again.
I spent a lot of time in the bowl out of sight,
Taught myself how to kickturn backside,
Rolled in from the shallow to the deep,
Board would stall, I would turn, almost vertical.
So two days before the New Year,
Just outside of Lansing, skating all alone,
No one to see, no one to help,
Dropped in from five feet,
not hard enough, manualed,
Landed on my butt, tried again,
Nailed it, didn’t seem like much.
Managed a few more, before biting it,
Twisting my knee, pulled something-or-other,
Still limping around the day after,
Upset that I’m out of commission.
Snow’s due to fly at any moment,
I just want to keep progressing,
But now everything’s on hold,
Everything will have to be relearned.
Come spring-time in the Great Lakes,
I’ll have to face my demons once more,
Stare down the tranny, standing on the coping,
Knee-pain added to my list of fears.
Wife tells me to give it up,
Accept that I’m too old, too frail,
And do something less dangerous,
Time to act my age and take up golf.
She’s gotta be pulling my leg, what the hell,
No way I’m gonna golf as long as I can walk,
Gonna take up the challenge, drop into the bowl,
She’s just upset that I got hurt.
Could have hurt myself shoveling snow,
Moving furniture or doing yard work,
I’m getting older that I can’t deny,
But I’ll be more careful, can’t give up so fast.
I figured out all the ways it can go wrong,
Leaning too far back, too far forward,
Not balanced correctly, feet off the board,
I learn by doing, can’t just listen or watch.
There is no guarantee of staying injury-free,
Regardless of what I do, where I go,
This sport, this activity that you frown upon,
Connects me to myself, it sets me free.
There are no external rewards for what we do,
Don’t want to recapture my youth,
This is all brand new, need it to live,
Need a reason to stay on this treadmill.
Day-in day-out I work and stew,
Need an outlet, need a way to express,
Something beyond words, beyond concepts,
I joke about skateboarding and Zen, but it is true.
Walking through the gateless gate,
The essence of being, skating is about doing,
Not about thinking or dreaming,
A martial art of the highest caliber.
So my body betrays me, but that is the way,
This body will betray me regardless of what I do,
If it must fall apart, at least I can call the shots,
Doing what I want to do, until it works no longer.
Remember if you can how I was,
Before I went back on the board,
Nothing more than a living corpse,
Not really living, just waiting for death.
Nowadays I feel more content,
I feel somewhat connected,
To my kids, to my environment,
A simple toy with four wheels,
Has given me back my life,
And Pain is a small price to pay.

photo drop

Jean Luc Gagnon, Luc Gagnon, something something Gagnon . . .
from Quebec, dropping in on one them massive vert ramps . . .
just so you get a sense--o.k., so I only dropped into 5 feet, but it might as well be 10 feet-- it looks pretty high . . . actually, if I'm 5-foot-7 and three-quarters of an inch and the drop is another 5 feet, it is rougly 10 feet to the ground, "eye-level," right . . .
Mr. Gagnon, meanwhile is dropping into some 15 foot monster of a ramp.

tail drop

Dropping in is the penultimate allegory,
Seems so easy on video, seems so easy in theory,
Standing on the lip, might as well be skydiving,
With no parachute, nothing to catch me but concrete.
First dozen times I slam and I bash my wrists,
I run to the store and buy pads and guards,
Try to protect every inch of my body with plastic,
Slamming on concrete is certainly no picnic.
Standing on the lip looking down, wanting to cry,
Searching for my cojones, looking for the answer,
Trying to find my courage, but I just shudder,
Know its probably a try-and-do situation.
My body is ready but my mind is in revolt,
I reach for the nose, but mind tells body to bolt,
Just like every other obstacle in my life,
Too scared to try, too scared to fail.
The more I think the more I want to run,
How on earth am I gonna ride the wall,
Almost 90-degrees straight into free-fall,
There’s just no way this is gonna work.
Grabbed for the nose, slammed the front down,
Next thing I know I’m rolling on the flat,
Seemed so easy, seemed smooth as silk,
Skating at the park that Team Pain built.
This is alright almost kind of tame,
Why was I so scared, why was I so lame,
Didn’t even want to try, just wanted to run,
Too scared at the possibility of slamming again.
So I drop in a second time, then a third,
I couldn’t even imagine landing those a minute ago,
I have the park to myself since its still so cold,
I immediately consider dropping into the bowl.
But then I decide once more from five feet,
Just to make sure I got this dialed in,
But then my foot slips and my knee gets tweaked,
Skate gods decide that a taste of reality is what I need.
Standing on the lip, board out, trucks to coping,
Praying that I don’t slam, standing there just hoping,
Might as well be at the edge of doom,
The beginning of the end for mangadezi.
My mind tells me that this will end badly,
With me lying in the flat all bloodied,
Body broken, soul stained and thoughts muddied,
Unable to move or cry out due to the pain.
Mind tells you not to even try it,
But sometimes life needs to be lived,
It can’t be over-thought, so pray to your Lord
Grab that nose, grab your cojones and slam that board.
Mentally, logically it just doesn’t make sense,
Thinking, considering, only makes me more tense,
There is no substitute, I have to suck it up just drop,
Keep on dropping til I got this beotch on lock.

knee twisted

Twisted my knee and now its throbbing,
It only hurts when I try to bend it,
Keep it straight and it feels just fine,
Want to go skating, but know that I can’t.
Dropping in, fifth try of the day,
Last three were smooth as silk,
But back foot fell off on the last,
Fell off and planted on the concrete.
Front foot stayed on the board,
Body kept going, moving forward,
Thought I was gonna do the splits,
Inside of back knee screamed in pain.
Splits might have been better in a way,
Knee hurts like hell, ruined my whole day,
Icing and elevating, anti-inflammatory popping,
Hard lesson learned, gotta keep feet on the board.
Padded from head to toe, but nothing helped,
Head was helmeted, elbows and knees padded,
Wrists were guarded, fat tongue over tops of feet,
But none could help the inside of my back knee.
When I played football, twenty-some years ago,
I hit a running back, a few yards behind the line,
He cut. I hit. Body went one way, knee the other,
Sickest feeling I ever had, knew I had hurt him.
He was screaming and crying as I picked myself up,
I played dirty, don’t misunderstand,
Harassed receivers the length of field,
Grabbed at facemasks and gouged at eyes.
But felt sick when I unloaded on him,
Super-quick little back was picking us apart,
Eight, ten years on every carry,
But in an instant I blew out his knee.
Foot came off the board and my foot planted,
Faster than thought, too fast too react,
Foot planted, knee strained, shooting pain,
Screamed FU@# for everyone to hear.
Waiting for some crutches, wife’s gonna s&*#,
Hope this goes away quick, need to get my fix,
Gonna skate til my knees give way,
Knees will be made of titanium some far-off day.
Gotta get that drop in dialed,
Keep these damn feet nailed to the deck,
Gonna ride that pool, hit that lip,
Time to live is now, gonna let it all rip.

rice harvest

Houses sitting on stilts five feet high,
Flooding during the monsoons,
Underneath, we kept our pigs and chickens penned,
And the cousins and I would play hide and seek.
Pigs were raised to be sold,
Chickens kept for their eggs and meat,
Vegetables grown in our garden,
Rice farmers, but we sold ours,
And bought the cheaper stuff to eat.
Small ladders from the ground to the house,
A sort of deck area and then inside,
One-room shacks, shared beds,
Cooking, eating, sleeping all in the same space.
Grandma’s house sat right next to uncle’s,
And uncle’s butted up against auntie’s,
Something like sixteen of us,
All living in the family compound.
Rainwater was collected in large clay pots,
Sunset meant bedtime, unless it was a holiday,
Or a festival, then generators lit our way.
Kerosene lamps for those special occasions,
Out in the rice fields, or hunting for beetles,
Insect delicacies, a taste learned during hardship,
Not an easy life, but life just the same.
Trips to the canal early every morning,
Collecting water for the day,
Life lived simply, close to the bone,
Rough as it was, this was my home.
Dirt roads led to the rice paddies,
Led to the town twenty-some miles away,
Where the Americans built an air base,
Used to bomb Hanoi and the Viet Cong.
We would take the truck-turned-taxi,
Called the Baht Bus, into the town,
Udon Thani--to see how the other half lived,
People with electricity, running water.
There also was a market in our village,
Owned by the second-richest man,
Run on generators and stocked with luxuries,
Coca-cola, canned milk, stuff most of us couldn’t buy.
I remember seeing my first American,
Some long-haired blonde, riding a motorbike,
Parked his ride and leaned up against a tree,
Watching the Rocket Festival in Nong Sai.
Not sure where he was from, maybe worked on the base,
I wondered if he was my dad, wondered if he knew my dad,
Wondered if all Americans looked like him.
The Rocket Festival, celebrated by Lao’s,
Don’t even know why, but everyone,
Young and old, took part,
But I remember staring at the American,
Paying little attention to the man-sized rockets,
Instead staring at the American man,
Standing there with hands in his pockets.
Lonely and unsure, often left alone,
Not sure where I belonged,
Different from everyone, so I was told,
Thought I was the same, part of the fold,
Your father is somewhere else,
Your mother is never here,
You don’t belong here, here with us.
A child doesn’t know, doesn’t understand,
What all of that means, what it entails,
He follows his elders, does whatever he’s told.
At harvest-time, I followed them to the fields,
We walked down dirt roads, some flooded,
Foot-bridges spanned the water,
No wider than I was at age four,
No time to be afraid, everyone loaded down.
Remnants and remains of older bridges,
Off in the distance, canals and streams,
Forever changing their course,
Taught a young child that all is impermanent.
Rice paddies as far as I could see,
At night we slept in the shelter,
Not much more than a pavilion,
A thatched roof with four posts.
During the day, we would play in the paddies,
Chasing after rats and staying out of the way,
This is what we did, this is how we lived.
Finally met my father, re-met mother,
I left with my brand new family,
Half way around the world to America.
Culture shock at every turn,
Only five years old, couldn’t speak English,
Didn’t understand their customs,
Still trying to make sense of it all.
Can’t help but feel that something’s missing,
Need to integrate what and who I’ve been,
Where and when and what I’ve seen,
Leaving little bits of myself everywhere,
But it’s all part of the big picture.

expound and confound

Now scattered and smashed,
Need to re-integrate and rediscover.
Our house sits on the top of a hill,
Basement floods during heavy rains,
Cat roams around the house not doing much.
Quarter-acre lot, big for the city,
Daughter and son out playing, singing a ditty,
So Lao of them, but they’ll never know,
Can’t blame them, they’re mostly Indian.
I never taught what little I thought I knew,
Truth is what seems true to you,
A little bit of this, a little bit of that,
I see their faces, see their cousins,
Indian and Lao and otherwise,
same exact sets of eyes,
Same optimism, same innocence.
If they only knew, only saw how I lived,
Not much different from their Mishomis,
Their grandfather, a little like their Nokomis.
“He has an old soul” someone once said-
about me-but no, I grew up the old way,
lived with my family, every single day,
shared meals and stories, free from the lies,
free from computers, free from the movies.
Our reality is what we saw everyday,
Films and music just reached the countryside,
Just as I was born and being raised,
But we were so backwards, we were the last,
The last to buy in to the lies, give up our past,
What I saw didn’t last for very long after,
We were still human and not mere numbers,
On someone’s chart or graph or marketing plan.
I feel at home with Indians because of this,
More than anything else, so many still understand,
That we are not what we own,
That there is more to life than gaining or buying,
And there are folks who don’t buy into the lying,
It is not confined to our race, or our place,
But many understand and see the fallacy,
Don’t give up the reality for the fantasy.
Life is in front of us and all around,
Bigger, better faster, isn’t always better,
So often we are rushed along by life,
But not the real—but the life that we have invented,
Forces that rush us head-long toward death.
I have lived and I have seen,
some how some way,
I must do something, say something,
My work is not complete, need to go home,
Need to complete the circle,
So many circles in my life,
So many beginnings and few endings,
I am Indian (Mohawk),
I am American,
I am Canadian,
I am Thai,
I am Lao,
I am European--Polish they claim,
But I still haven’t accepted,
That last bit is a bit too much.
A melting pot, but the distinctive flavors linger,
So what is next, what follows after,
Addicted to indigenous cultures,
Due to the interconnectedness of everything,
But we are on the cusp,
A little bit of this, a little bit of that,
Don’t want to give anything up.
Canadians like to say they are a cultural mosaic,
The distinctly different pieces remain,
To form a beautiful picture.
I am so many distinctly different pieces,
At times it is difficult to discern,
But the beginning, the start of my turn,
Is to accept those different parts of me.
The beginning of this journey starts anew,
So much I’ve ignored, so much thrown away,
But they are all me, comfortable or not,
Life doesn’t give it to us nice and neat,
Not everything can be easily defined.
I start with a vivid memory,
And becomes more and more so,
I can almost feel the sun on my skin,
Monsoon rain on my head,
Something awakens and expands,
Then I expound and confound even my self.
That is the start and we’ll see where we go,
Maybe to Thailand, then to Laos,
Back over to Ontario and over the ocean once more,
Until I figure this out, until this chapter is closed.

som tum (papaya salad)

Isan, Isaan, Esarn, Isarn, Esan, Esaan,
All means the same thing, to Laos and Thais,
Means you’re from the northeast,
Is it Sanskrit, or is it Thai?
One of them, one of them languages,
Descendents of kings, former kingdoms,
Ancient ruins whisper stories long forgotten.
Growing up as I did on the outskirts,
On the cusp, out in the bush,
Not far from the Mekong,
Along the canals know as klongs,
Water-buffalo boy, knee high in the rice paddy.
Idyllic days, sun beating down from on high,
But we all called, spoke of ourselves as Thai.
Country bumpkins to the city folk,
We revealed ourselves whenever we spoke,
Sing-songy dialects, different customs,
Different foods, different looks.
Talked about being Lao, like it was long ago,
Something we no longer were,
But try as we might, we are still Lao.
Holidays and dress, language and food,
Treated as second-class, treated as lewd,
Easy to forget that Thai was forced upon us,
So long ago, but not very far away,
Across the river, after the kingdom’s fall,
Papaya salad with crabs and mudfish, eaten raw.
Thai-ification just like the Brits did to the Scots,
As the Romans did to the Brits,
As the Egyptians did to whoever . . .
Same old song and dance from time immemorial.
Looking at pictures of Laos, I see myself,
I see my family and the way that we lived,
Before electricity, technology changed everything,
Back when our family would farm and sing,
Dance, drink and live simply under the burning sun.
Now everything has changed and everyone is leaving,
The villages empty except for the elderly, left grieving,
Back then the temple was the center of life,
And everyone worked hard harvesting the rice.
Simple, simple life, pre-industrial, pre-technological,
But now they all watch American t.v.,
Talk on their cellphones and drive their cars,
Live in the cities and hang out at topless bars,
Not that any of that is bad,
But its different, just not the same.
And here I go again building further stress,
Didn’t mean to at the start, but I digress,
What struck me, what I wanted to share,
Was that I feel like it makes sense in a strange way,
The pictures of the Mekong, hills rising above the water,
Pictures of the children, reminds me of my daughter.
Had the same feeling in Mohawk Valley,
Staring at the river, hills rising above the water,
Felt like home, felt like I knew my place,
I felt akin to the land and the spirits of that place.
Had that same sensation pondering, thinking
About the Lao in Thailand, all 15 million or so,
Only six million living in Laos, kind of ironic.
I say Thai, but I mean Lao, Isaan,
That’s what I am, at least half anyway,
Isolated for so long, growing up in Motown,
Not likely to run into other Laos or Mohawks,
My culture, color was also an issue to others,
I’m just like you, I would say, which is true,
But being around others like me, somewhat,
Grew in importance over the years.
How many Lao-Mohawks are there in the world,
Not many I would guess, none that I have met,
But to know where it is you are from,
That isn’t something that I ever had,
So cheesy in a way, but it makes me glad,
To know that that is where we are from,
What we have done, where we have gone.
Where we all go next us up to us,
The future remains to be seen,
But I’m freed from my self-loathing,
Freed from the sense of being an outsider.
Freed from carrying my shame,
All along we were all the same.
Funny that Areeya once said,
“What minorities?
There are no minorities in Thailand.”
And I asked, “What do you think I am?”
I’m not Thai, I’m Lao—I’m Isaan.”
But I never really understood what that meant,
Never realized that the minority was so large,
My sense of shame, my own ignorance was to blame,
Turned my back on myself for far too long,
I am these things, but so much more.
If I ignore whatever part isn’t appealing,
What does that leave, what is left,
cannot have the good without the bad,
cannot ignore half or a part of life,
and yet somehow be whole.

manitoulin

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manitoulin_island

Let me tell you about the island—Manitoulin means, “dwelling place of the spirit” . . . it is the largest freshwater island in the world. There are numerous lakes within the island and there are even a couple of islands on those lakes. It was considered a sacred place to the “Three Fires Confederacy”—the Ojibwe, Odawa and Potawatomi. It is about 90 miles long and 35 miles at the widest—the island is hilly and the roads are winding so it would take you two-and-a-half hours to drive from one end to the other. There are seven reservations on the island, but my wife’s is unique because it is “unceded”. The Wikwemikong tribal chiefs walked away from treaty negotiations and never signed a treaty with the Canadian government.
The Three Fires peoples began repopulating the island around the time of the War of 1812, after the Battle of Falling Timbers and Pontiac’s Rebellion. Large portions of the Ohio Valley and Michigan were handed over because of the treaties signed during this period. The Indians left Michigan and relocated to Manitoulin, hoping to maintain their freedom and sovereignty. Most of the Odawa and Potawatomi tribes, whether living in Canada, Michigan or Kansas/Oklahoma (bands that were “relocated”), are actually related.
The reserve has always been a little different from other places that I’ve been to—they have been on the cutting edge with language, cultural, youth, and elder programs for years. Their tribal government has always been very progressive and has tried to hold to their traditional beliefs in everything they do.
I don’t agree with everything they do, of course, and the church has certainly had a strong influence on the its history, but overall its set a higher standard for other communities to follow. The Catholic Church finally gave in to the strong traditional vein in the community as has completely adopted native customs into its church services. The priest wears buckskin and eagle feathers and medicine wheels have been incorporated into the symbolism of the church.
As far as the present-day community—it’s like coming from a small town. But a small town that you can always go back to and that you will always have a connection to. Drugs, alcoholism, broken families, juvenile delinquency, and domestic abuse are all serious issues which they face, but their approach to these problems as a community gives hope to folks like me. They were one of the first communities that I know of that took a traditional, community-centered effort to combat these issues. Their rehabilitation center has been a model for reservations across Canada and the U.S.
The island itself is beautiful—I’ve met vacationers from all over the U.S. and Canada. Boating, fishing, golfing—all that good stuff is very popular with the summer residents and year-round residents. Typical northern Great Lakes foliage, but free of condominiums, fast-food joints (none are allowed on the island) and the usual, typical homogenization of our stores, restaurants, etc. . . .
I love the island, but I love the people—even with all the humanly problems they bring with them. The environment, community, native traditions all have an important place on this island. I hated leaving when we did, but we did so because our son was diagnosed with his kidney condition. And native kids growing up on the reservation is not always a good thing—not much better than growing up in the hood in Detroit. They would have been labeled and categorized just for the tint of their skin, the blood in their veins.
But when they go to the island, when I go to the island, I feel proud. These are the descendents of people who fought for their freedom alongside Chief Pontiac. When they lost that battle, they relocated themselves and their families to northern Lake Huron to continue living as their Creator had meant them to. They knew that staying in Michigan was not in their best interests and they left before their lands, which were never theirs to begin with, were carved up and divided for some pieces of paper and empty promises.
I love Manitoulin Island and I love Wikewemikong-what little I have seen, what little I have been able to experience first-hand. It is not perfect by any means, but a work in progress and one that I hold great hope for. I love my wife’s family because they always taught their children the importance of education and of upholding their Indian-ness and their traditions. I love the way I can go back to “Wiky” and they all remember me and are glad to see me. I love the way the clock slows down and I can see the stars clearly at night and the smiles of these great people all around me. I love that my children will always be able to say, “I am from Wikewemikong. I am from Manitoulin Island.”

cool/uncool

my folks moved cross-state right after I graduated from high school (1987)-- I hooked up with a whole new skate crew right away and skated with them guys everyday. They were all three or four years younger than me, but I was all about having fun. I also shared my love of the Punk Rock with the youngsters--
I started college in the fall, but I would hang with the the guys whenever I was back in town-- Christmas break, summer breaks, etc . . . for the next three or four years.
It was interesting to see kids drift away from skating for all kinds of different reasons--work, school, girlfriends. I stopped soon after myself got too busy with work and family, etc . . .
The one that pist me off was Scotty becoming a jock and totally turning his back on all his boys. Suddenly all the people he was hanging with thought skateboarding wasn't cool anymore, so he followed suit and ended up harassing his old friends for doing what they loved.
I told him--dude, you're living in some podunk town in the middle of nowhere and you think you're the shite cuz all of a sudden you're some hot-shot football star or some krap? You go to a Class D (smallest division) high school. You'd be lucky to make the third string at the school I went to . . . big fish in a small pond don't mean shite . . .
I played football, ran track, alla that . . . but I'd wear my punk rock t-shirts proudly and did want I wanted to do.
"Why's that guy wearing a varsity jacket AND a punk rock shirt? Is he a jock that's punk, or a punk that's a jock?"
How about me just being me? Skating helped define me-- sports was just something I did for fun . . . maybe that was the difference.

limping off

Where exactly did it all go wrong,
Carving into the corner, but suddenly stalling,
Did I try to try to hang on for too long,
Instead of carving, flipped through the air falling.
I had dropped in on the bank, went up the box,
Down the other side, onto the flat just cruising,
Checking myself after, I saw blood on my socks,
Checked my elbow my knee, saw both bruising.
I had rolled slowly over the flat, perhaps too slow,
But then I pumped and floated into the corner,
Riding goofy-foot, front-side carve to body blow,
Foot-slipped, board stalled, the latter or the former?
Which to blame- me, the board, or all the above,
Body twisted and spun, landed on my left side,
No pads except hands were Triple-8 anti-gloved,
Landing on the left, the laws of physics defied.
Spun me like a top, was I too low, too high,
Not at all like the dozen or so previous runs,
Scraped my hip, pulled something in my thigh,
Shot my fish board right at some young guns.
“You alright?”, “You o.k.?”, ask members of the crew,
“Yep, sure, no problem.” I lie as I dust myself off,
Old man me, looking all grim in front of the new school,
Trying to be tough, not wanting them to think I’m soft.
I chase down my board, walk back up the bank,
Roll right back in, hit the same exact spot,
My groin muscle screamed, my heart sank,
I can deal with some pain, but not a lot.
After a few more runs, I hang it up for the day,
Slamming sucks, but I really shouldn’t complain,
Pain reminds you that you’re alive, so they say,
I’m just glad to be skating, glad there’s no rain.
Can’t think of a better way to spend Christmas Eve,
On my lunch break, while working a sixteen,
Blood soaking through my shirt, I pull up the sleeve,
Happily limping off, til the next time I fiend.