The judging of judgement

Not in the courtroom drama sense, the legal sense - but rather in the very personal, individual way we set ourselves up as judge and jury for those who share our lives, whether tangentially or intimately.

Demons are differently-shaped. Some have horns and spikes and fire. Some are an undertow pull. Some are softly smothering.
All demons play different notes, on varied instruments, in sometimes discordant ways.

Accord those you love the decency of listening to the demon song they can't stop playing in their head. It may not be your song; you may hate the fucking song.

But it is what they hear, and you are not meant to be the scathing reviewer.

Depilatory

Perfect and polished
With your shiny legs and hair -
Arranged, cut bouquet.

Groomed and coddled, you
Can sit and stare, vague still-life,
No finger lifted,

No ugly sparking;
Even your crudeness makes no
stink. How nice to be

Availed of that, while
This caricature of you
Skins and claws their way

Up. Shaving the sides
Of some old pit. This stubble
Pulls against the blade.

Saturday Night, Oakland Park

Scraping the burnt garlic into the sink;
another dinner for the disposal.
This is not for you.

Neither is the sweet oil.

(Admonished; ground and gone.)

A stubble of charcoal from the filter rolled
on the skin of your knee: This is yours, as is
the red, tight crescent remaining in your glass

Someone's tires grab close, braking on that right turn,
And screech for your street
Like a cheerleader.

I'll bet you think this vignette's about you

We are arranged on the mossy steps of an amphitheater, and the air is damp and oily. Five or six of us are there, in dark green raincoats, making fidgety conversation. A blonde girl climbs the steps. She's almost-pretty, pale skin and eyes, and she is not from here - not from HERE in any way at all. "She's from the other side of the partition", is how I phrase it in my head. To her, I say nothing but "Hello" as she sweeps past me on the steps. She sits down, a stair above me and next to you. She flirts in a curious accent, and you laugh. She pulls your hand to leave. She's taking you back, and you are going to cross the partition together. My face and shoulders swerve up towards you, and you bend down, even as you are pulled away. In this awkward pose you tell me thank you and sorry and that you have to go but you will think of me. You kiss me, a slippery taste of pond, and rain, and algae. Then, gone. I cover my hair and eyes with my hood.

Game of chicken

It's as if there isn't enough brain fabric to stretch from one side of an idea to another. Thought runs out, or gets snagged on a superfluous splinter. I've underachieved for so long that I'm lost in the degradation; cowed, cowering, as headlight-caught as a dumb deer while the resignation runs over me without even a squealing of tires.