Jon Carter is a writer from Lufkin Texas. His poetry and prose is heavily influenced by his own life and his writing is grunge-fueled and honest. He has published work in Down in the Dirt Magazine, The Airgonaut, Literary Yard and Leaves of Ink.
World is a Pit
I have this habit of walking with my feet out in front of me. like I’m leaning forward into something invisible.
heavy. most of my life being 200 - 220 pounds. barrel chest. a mostly disinterested face.
everything shakes when I walk. tables. spoons. brains inside of skulls.
I always keep my feet pointed forward. I lean like I’m going to tackle the world to the ground.
and I’ve learned to not hang around those I intimidate when I first meet them, they only spend the rest of the time around me putting me down to make themselves feel better about how they think.
I drink I write I laugh. I stomp off in whatever direction I choose.
these are just some of the things I’ve made up my mind about doing…
back when I was still young.
we were poor when I was young and it was dark.
I didn’t know where anyone was but earlier that day my mom had taught me how to shuffle cards.
I was in the upstairs room. the TV didn’t have any channels but I left it on and let the static give me light.
I didn’t quite have the hang of it. the bridge. the cards kept slipping out of my hands.
I wanted to get it down, though. when my mom saw me again I wanted to be able to show her I could do it.
the night went on and on and I started getting better. one or two times I got it right.
then after a few hours I had it down. again and again. perfect and perfect.
I did it over and over, hoping at any moment my mom would come in and see me and recognize the work I’d put in to get it right.
then the sun started to come through the window. I turned the TV off and went to the curtains and looked through them.
I stared, trying to make sense of it all. the cards slowly dropped from my hand to the floor.
I wake up like I do 50 push-ups, shower, coffee work work home drink.
I scream FUCK FUCK FUCK tell my wife I’m headed out for a smoke.
well, she holds me with her talking about how I have poor communication skills well fuck I know that I’m staring at the window sill at the 400 dead flies hanging out there peacefully as she talks and talks and talks and I nod my head slowly.
I leave and hop in the charger rev the engine wave out my open window at an old man with glasses red shirt cane. he waves back. I can’t talk but damn it I can wave.
well the gas station is in the ghetto and the ones that don’t frequent are easy to spot. They slink around with their heads bowed.