Woundead

There’s this guy

Who says “fuck” all the time

Fuck this

Fuck that

Every fucking every other word

That pours out of his mouth

Is fuck.

Fuck, he annoys me.

Smokes pot all fucking day

Angry as fuck

Mellow as fuck

Alternately

You name it

He’s fucked.

Fuck, just the other fucking day

He fucking calls me on the fucking phone

Just to say

“Fuck, Pete!

What the fuck?”

“I dunno,” I says,

“What the fuck with you?”

“Not fucking much.”

And he hangs up the fucking phone.

What the fuck?

He knows I’ll fucking call him back

‘Cuz he’s fuckin’ suicidal.

“You okay?”

“FUCK, yeah!”

“Then what the fuck?”

“Oh, fuck, I don’t fucking know, man.”

“Then … you’re okay, then.”

“Fuck, yeah.”

“Okay. ‘Cuz you scared the fuck out of me.”

“Oh fuck.  I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.  Well, take care now.”

“Fuck ––”

And I hear a distant bang

What seems to be a distant gun shot.

A moment passes.

I can hear a door open.

It’s his wife.

“Oh, fuck ––”

Pine Mountain Club, March 3, 2014