Samuel Akiva Pui-Ying Huang Skeist
Wake. Crack the sleepy red eyes. Sweep the sleep from the cracks. I swear, the night’s cold air sleeps in floor cracks and relishes in the chills it sends up my back. I grab my pack out my pant pocket…. I guess that running at daybreak thing will have to wait till tomorrow. I stumble to the bathroom with sunrise creeping through the curtains. The birds have always got something to sing about and when I check my raggedy reflection- I’m always as ugly as the morning before… with dried white crust around the lips and scruffy five o’clock shadow just itching on the wrist. I brush my teeth with a cigarette burnin’ on the sink edge while the toilet complains of constipation and the shower won’t stop drooling. It’s got that drip, drip, sputter, drool, drip. The type that you can’t hear until you’re just about to slip and right then comes in with that, “I’m gonna keep you up for the next fifteen minutes just for the fuck of it” type drip, drip. But eventually it fades… like jeans… and morals… and before you can even appreciate the quiet you wake to the “eh, eh, eh.” Forget the sleep button… It reminds me of a frigid high school encounter that promised nothing more than a five minute tease. Gimme me hibernation or caffeine induced insomnia. Gimme me three shots and a beer or eucalyptus tea. I don’t want the middle ground…some Buddhist myth of a happy medium where a baldhead with nine dots turns the other cheek because he’s only got one arm to box with. I’ve got a bottle of painkillers teasing from the closet and their gossip bothers me as much the fact that my socks don’t match. When my toes adjust to the chilly tiles and I throw on one of my favorite records, my red eyes come into focus and I thank the alarm for being so persistent. I may not be singing with the birds, but I’ll kick a close to honest freestyle in the shower and… delay the denouement. Today, I’m gonna make something. Yeah… today, I’m gonna make…some coffee.