Spontaneous Human Combustion

To tell the story of the nice-guy is to tell a tale of unlost innocence. There is no complexity that circumstance can’t remedy. There is no effort to niceness; only a virgin world that blossoms on genetically mutated ideology, growing larger than generations past.

Tomorrow, in Houston, a butcher will wake up to slaughter a cow he may have named. There will no be no tears when he grills steak for the wife he wooed and the children he prescribed himself. Three daughters, from fifteen to twenty-two. Tiramisu for dessert. Ten guns in the cabinet beneath the stairs and innocence buried behind the woodshed.

Pretend now, that you are forgiven.

Mistakes fade like snow angels, regrets float like chemtrails. You love you as much as the world always did. You have not seen friends struck down by powders or lunacy, you have only lived in the glow of their light. Hearts remain full. The word swagger hasn’t been hijacked by hip hop and bluejeans still mask imperfections. Sunsets are memorable,and so are first dates and last kisses. Sun won’t blister fragile shoulders. Fields blossom just in time to suit your irregular taste buds, satisfying sweet corn cravings on Christmas.

Forget your father’s words or a stranger’s hand. Forget improbability, impossibility, impotence, importance, impatience and improper goodbyes. Forget the tears cried alone into vomit filled sheets at midnight. Forget the effect but remember the cause, camouflaged like a landmine of good ideas. Forget the fights and slow-turn walk-aways that turned words flaccid. Forget friends fucking ex-girl friends and amphetamines crashing into hallucinations.

Nice-guys vanish like good ideas, lost in the shuffle, looking for pen and paper. Just like house cats die on the forth of July, and all that’s left are ashes on a mantel alongside fraudulent grins.

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