“He’s a dumb fuck,” I’m saying, talking as always about someone other than myself, very kindly, “but I do like working with him, even if I’m a little scared of his crackhead strength.” This elicits a chuckle, and I run my tongue over my front teeth. Almost certainly a cavity in the upper left incisor. Probably a mark left by a raspberry seed, a stray clump of coffee-coated sugar, maybe just too much abuse. In three months, I’ll have my own front teeth knocked out on a curb just a few blocks away for not having any cash. Crackhead Chad won’t look so funny then. But for now I just stew, worrying my tongue along my upper gums. Have they ever bled? I’m not sure. Have a piece of toffee, a cigarette, another beer perhaps. Let the tongue worry, it’s a good strong muscle. Let it master my anxieties, dental and otherwise, that I might talk ideas into happenings. Would that I could. That’s probably another cavity in the upper right incisor too. I’ve never had a filling – my only frame of reference is Orin Scrivello from “Little Shop of Horrors,” and the only thing I like about him is his penchant for nitrous oxide. And Steve Martin’s performance of “Dentist!” is phenomenal. Is that what it’s like? Foreign metal pecking at the sickly black matter in my mouth? I’m happy to let sleeping dogs lie for now, happy to let my tongue take the burden. ∎
Pat Miller is a writer and former line cook currently teaching pre-K literacy in Memphis. His work has previously appeared in several literary journals around the country, such as The Dilettante of New Orleans and The Healing Muse of New York. His poetry frequently takes the form of self-produced zines, such as Garden Variety, published by Bottlecap Press. He is also a reader for the Arkansas International literary magazine. His interests and writing dwell on disillusionment, shared experiences, and connections between people, the world, and poetry.
Featured image: Self-Portrait #2 (Teeth), 1981, Francesco Clemente
The Dilettante 