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Saturday, January 19, 2013

Badly Numbered Days


Something didn’t feel right about its approach.  

I don’t like that others fear it on tippy-toes when it comes up,  while roulette players reach to cover its black space in antithetical hopes of good fortune.  

As a biker, I’m amused that an infamous ‘bad boys’ biker club lays claim to and brandishes it and to its juxtaposed “31.”  
 
On its odd-as-in-funny face, it’s been cast to represent “M,” midway through our alphabet and whose very reputation can be construed to mean “marijuana.”
 
Thirteen is tattooed on my calendar and life again and again this year.
 
13
 
A baker’s dozen, harmless as one of its doughnuts.
 
I’m not superstitious. I confess to calendar dread of thirteen, different than superstition or so I tell myself. 
 
There are unavoidable, inescapable collisions of health and finance in my 2013. 
 
That 2013’s early September marks my sixtieth birthday, there are wistful farewells to youth's bygone days. There’s increased, unwelcome frequency of misspent thought about my mortality that shadow boxes with my moods bank, as annoying and real as the fly you can’t seem to avoid or swat.
 
Should I die before December 31st, thirteen will necessarily be engraved on my headstone sunk into the limestone and clay of a hilly cemetery in central Kentucky
 
Thirteen will will have beaten me, ad infinitum and for all to see, just as it's the odds-on favorite to make losers of roulette bettors. 

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