Lymph Node

            I toss up my bare feet on the adjacent couch, its grainy surface making the skin on my calves and hamstrings itch. I’ve always hated this couch, a beige, maroon, and forest green plaid aberration in a living room that is already kitsch-ily decorated, to put it lightly. It is so hot in the room that whenever I shift my glance, it’s in that slow, exaggerated swivel where your eyes close for a good couple seconds between the embarking and ending angles, trying to conserve even the infinitesimal energy it takes to keep your eyelids open. A sense of mild, yet effective perturbation is implicit in this movement, and this look seems particularly a propos as Dustin just made some especially snarky comment I’m choosing to ignore.

            “ I said,” he insists a bit louder, sitting across from me in a questionable ensemble of long argyle socks, pin-stripe shorts, and brown felt oxfords, “it looks like you have fucking trench foot”

            I try to hide my amusement, affecting an air of placidity as I walk over to my open MacBook, pronating terribly, and discreetly google trench foot. A shiver xylophones the length of my spine and I feel my breakfast lurch in revolt. The image results look like giant, microwaved candy corn. Scrolling further down, there is a significantly less severe case that actually bears a minor resemblance to my left foot, beleaguered by a blister that starts at the crown of the big toe and stretches through the entire forefoot into the incipient curvature of the arch, roughly the length of my index finger.

            Its geographical likeness to the state of Michigan is uncanny; geologically it is more reminiscent of Chernobyl. The ribbed, blistered skin has ripped off in strips and reveals an infant-purple lower layer underneath, a flushed hue and perfectly smooth- save for the spider-webs cracks of dry skin at the creases of the toe. I neglect to show Dustin the picture, and also withhold from him that the blister in question has been, on several occasions, much worse.

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We make moves in stage coaches 
Rah Digga likes the roaches 
If anyone approaches 
We be like noches, buenos 
And I compose a poem for the many gun-slingers 
R & B singers, perpetrating guns with two fingers. 

My style is perhaps one of the foulest 
I inhale large clouds of smoke through my chalice. 
(Buckin' at stars) and write rhymes for hours 
The ghetto missy, drinkin' whiskey sours. 

Bust this scenario, can't no other niggas in the barrio 
(From Newark to Ontario), bust us when we in stereo. 
Cause me and Rashida rock the battles 
It's apparent, you're no talent, cause your blazin' in your saddle. 

Watch these rap bitches get all up in your pockets 
Then bounce with accountants that give me good stock tips 
Cause props is up, Digga's through the roof 
Burnin' niggas like I'm 90 proof. 

And for all you head beaters 
The lead eaters, the cheaters soon to be retreaters 
While mamasitas carry real heaters. 

I rock the Dooby and 
L rocks the Nubian twists 
96 
Muthafuckas gettin' dissed