i made the guacamole today.

the shaving, little hairs in my razor; i wash them off, they slither down the sink like strokes in a painting, meet up with flushed goldfish and other people's shit in the little rusty pipes under my feet. i think that is what the word collusion was invented for--

i heard someone on the subway today. i was near 8th avenue, getting off the L to take the A up to times square to go to work. someone was talking about queer as folk, an explosion on the show (i have seen ads for it: they say, "Queer as Folk goes out with a bang..." leave it to them to be so literal) where all the main characters' fates may be in. "it reminded me of..."

i cut the mole above my lip again; it's on the left (my right in the mirror). the blood looked especially black, rising up through the threads of the body shop shaving lotion i had lathered onto my skin. slowly, it joined into a pink melange until the blood over took it, the black red triumphing over the lotion and then dribbling down over the top of it. a year ago, i cut this very same mole shaving. it bled the whole morning at the strand bookstore that day -- people telling me to put a little piece of paper on it to block it up. i had the thought today, seeing the same blood come out of my skin, the same black red oil: i have now cut you enough times, i cut a scar. i open up a scar and what good is that? white thick tissue a blight on my already pored visage. you bleed the same, though. so i will cut you again, i suppose. i am careless like that.

at this point, i leaned in closer to look at the blood dripping down onto my lip. a single droplet splashed down onto the white sink, and for dramatic effect, i will explain it to you now: like red raspberry syrup on a chilled dessert dish, the splatter (BPR) a telling indication of my height, the angle of my spine, the tilt of my chin against the mirror so as to get a better view of my upper lip. for an inspired second, i wonder if there is a whitehead beneath the blood. squeeze it like a zit, and the blood gets under my dirty fingernails. nothing changes, it only drips more. i grab a towel and wipe off my lip -- white cream and blood a strawberry sundae.

when they released the pictures of the london bombers, i have to admit i felt a little at ease. relieved that their bombs did not seem to fit into sandwich bags or expensive faux leather briefcases. they were fucking hiking back packs strapped onto their backs and towering over their heads. but i don't want to talk about blood pattern recognition anymore: my lip has healed into a scarred mole again. probably i'll forget about it until my neck itches, i dip my fingers into the white cream and reach for the razor blade again.