Sometimes on TV a flashing green neon light
        reminds Jake of the silver blade

        slashing air, slicing skin; then the red line
        breaking up into rivulets,

        smearing his arm as his fingers touched the
        would even before the pain hit.

        Even now, he doesn’t recall grabbing the beer
        bottle, smashing it against the table.

        But he still hears the big man’s almost child-
        like scream seeming to echo against

        the scarred walls of Jake’s prison cell, still
        feels the shock of how easily

        the solid slivers of glass ripped the red t-shirt
        and sank into the stomach

        as smoothly as a spoon through pudding.  He
        remembers comparing blood,

        his own a drying pond alongside the red ocean
        pouring from the big man’s

        body, the red t-shirt an even deeper red, the
        wooden floor a giant crimson

        easel featuring the big man in immortal
        majesty as Jake stood meekly

        by, knowing how truly insignificant was the
        slight cut on his own arm.  In

        the fast seconds before sirens outscreamed
        the bar’s patrons, he stared in

        numbed silence as his mind absorbed
        the irony of the big man’s apparent victory.


Copyright © Gene Fehler, 2005. All Rights Reserved.