Saturday, June 20, 2015

A Denver Omelette [2011/2015]

I've forgotten what song it was -- in 1977 -- that made me want to be a musician.  
I've forgotten the name of my second dog, my third, my fourth.  
I've forgotten to be friendly when approached on the street.  
I've forgotten to do my homework.  
I've forgotten why the desperate woman was pleading for the custody of her child 
          on a pay phone outside of 7-Eleven.  
I've forgotten that green peppers give me heartburn.  
I've forgotten to call my mother.  (I've forgotten to call her my mother.)  
I've forgotten when I was supposed to pick up the dry cleaning.  
I've forgotten how we managed to skip school so often.  
I've forgotten where my grandfather was stationed during World War II.  
I've forgotten the name of the person who edited my favorite book of embouchure drills.  
I've forgotten to bring a sweater, a change of underwear, a thermometer, a BB gun, 
          a shoebox full of clipped newspaper obituaries, a corkscrew.  
I've forgotten why Greg's daughter saw fit to call him "Humpty Dumpty".  
I've forgotten why my entire foot had turned black.  
I've forgotten the phone number for the Zioptis Foundation.  
I've forgotten what my father's face looks like.  (I've forgotten why we didn't get along.)  
I've forgotten how many albums Don Ellis released in his lifetime.  
I've forgotten my first girlfriend's name.  
I've forgotten exactly how much stink five guinea pigs can make, 
          and how quickly they can make it.  
I've forgotten how to mow the lawn, trim the shrubs, till the garden.  
I've forgotten what a chai-tea latte tastes like when it's cold.  
I've forgotten the Cub Scouts group leader who was caught masturbating to 
          blurry videos of Thai children being skinned alive.  
I've forgotten the name for pan-fried shredded potatoes.  
I've forgotten why my mother chose to dress Joel in yellow.  
I've forgotten who narrated the Chuck Jones version of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.  
I've forgotten what I was doing at the end of the dock that morning.  
I've forgotten how many years I spent at Dearborn Music.  
I've forgotten my address, telephone number, Social Security number, 
          driver's license number.  
I've forgotten why Debbie was so offended by my screaming 
          "box" across the crowded restaurant.  
I've forgotten to apply the topical cream.  
I've forgotten how melted sharp cheddar cheese became 
          my favorite thing in the whole wide world.  
I've forgotten which of the twins approached me first.  
I've forgotten to shower, shave, brush my hair, apply deodorant, gargle.  
I've forgotten the hiking path that ended in a pile of used condoms and syringes.  
I've forgotten how many times I've seen Touch of Evil.  
I've forgotten where I was standing when the Brockabrella was blown from my head.  
I've forgotten the people who vote against their own best interests to keep from 
          voting for the black guy.  
I've forgotten to lock the door, the cabinet, the jewelry box.  
I've forgotten the subject matters of our varied correspondences.  
I've forgotten why I want "Text 7" from Samuel Beckett's Texts for Nothing 
          performed at my funeral service.  
I've forgotten how many rabbits are sleeping at my feet.  
I've forgotten the time when life was so good, I almost died from it.  
I've forgotten why we pissed away the entire evening listening to 
          Johnny Hartman records.  (I've forgotten the breadth of Illinois Jacquet's tone.)  
I've forgotten the 23 emaciated greyhounds found caged in an 8' x 10' tool shed.  
I've forgotten why she was sitting on my couch in the first place.  
I've forgotten the time Jim and I attended "Singles Night" at Border's in Grosse Pointe, 
          cheap wine on our breaths, the smell of a campfire permeating our clothes.  
I've forgotten the color of his eyes.  (He had some eyes.)  
I've forgotten what it means to be hungry.  
I've forgotten the pots, pans, silverware.  
I've forgotten what dawn looks like from the other side of the cemetery.  
I've forgotten that attending church on Sunday morning can make up for the fact that you're 
          a malicious asshole every other day of the week.  
I've forgotten the time I promised Facebook I would call her the next day.  
I've forgotten sea salt.  
I've forgotten to tie my shoelaces, pull up my socks, brush off my knees.  
I've forgotten how lucky I am.  
I've forgotten which cut of pork is the tastiest.  (I've forgotten why I eat pork.)  
I've forgotten how I managed not to step into the confrontation, 
          not to raise my voice against her, not to kill her with my bare hands.  
I've forgotten the number of people I've betrayed.  (I've betrayed…)  
I've forgotten why we decided to name him "Josh".  
I've forgotten how many breast pockets I've lost to my brother's spastic, 
          flailing fits of "self-defense".  
I've forgotten which of the preceding statements is true.  
I've forgotten who ran for President -- against Ronald Reagan -- in 1984.  
I've forgotten how to properly utilize the ellipsis.  
I've forgotten how Erika smiles when she exits the building and sees me 
          waiting there for her.  
I've forgotten where I parked the car.  
I've forgotten the name of the woman who first introduced me to poetry.  
I've forgotten how to play the trumpet.  
I've forgotten who short-sheeted my bed.  
I've forgotten why I stopped shitting my pants beneath the dining room table.  
I've forgotten the toddler in filthy diapers running barefoot with a pack of dogs.  
I've forgotten 2 + 2.
I've forgotten where we were going when the car hit the tree, how many people were
          riding with me, and what exactly I was doing behind the wheel in the first place.  
I've forgotten why I cry when I think about how little time I had with Sam.  
I've forgotten the heat in summer, and how comforting most people find it.  
I’ve forgotten how to hate another man.  (I’ve forgotten how to hate another man.)  
I’ve forgotten toast.  
I’ve forgotten The Who’s ‘Schlitz Rocks America’ tour.  
I’ve forgotten what “dying” means.  
I’ve forgotten all the friends I’ve ever had.  
I’ve forgotten what it’s like to reason, to give a shit about the truth, 
          to exercise a little fucking kindness.  
I’ve forgotten how the rain on the windshield helped to change my mind.  
I’ve forgotten to wear a tie.  
I’ve forgotten hope.  
I’ve forgotten…  
I’ve forgotten…  
I've forgotten how to make a Denver omelette.

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