The Suburbs are a Lonely Drive

I recognized happiness today...right as I felt it.  Doesn't always happen so.  Then it was gone.  Into the night with no remorse or susceptibility to persuasion.

I nearly got hit by a car.  a tiny car  It was driven by angry dude(must've been his name cuz that's what I screamed at him in my near miss).  He was angry and grey and bordering on homosexual.  He didn't enjoy my comment about, 'Is that what you'd say to my bloody corpse after you smoked me?' when barely before rolling down his window to yell at me some random guilty shit.  You feel shitty, I get it.  You nearly killed someone with your 43mph thousand pounds.  He was truly booking it.  Why would you yell at someone after nearly hitting them?  Why would that be your first response?  Maybe it was my quick temper that drove him to it, or the fact that he was just a super dick blaming a pedestrian crossing a marked crosswalk for virtually dying under his car.  Ah well.  I survived...as did he and we went fa-rumping away in adjacent directions.

I was shy when kissing a boy I like...like, likelike.  He makes me feel new.  Like, everything is new.  Please don't let me wreck it by being coy, or playing games, or feeling fear, or jealousy or animosity over stupid shit.  He wrote me a poem.  He's given me flowers.  He romances with reckless abandon.  I use to do that.  Could I be inspired to do that again?  Am I doing it now out into the ether with no one to recognize that it's for them?  I just want to likelike someone for a while and not have it absolutely turn to shit and garbage and crap and poop.  Yeah...craPOO.  Proop.  Bingo.

I want to be an open person again.  The kind I use to be before the bud and beer, and destructive, nasty boys.  Not that this one will be any different once he grows up...it's inevitable.  I can't see it in him yet and it's the most fucking glorious thing.  Could I ever be that again?  I envy him some days and others, I just can't seem to stop looking at his beautiful face.  He is indeed a work of art.  Balls.  It began with a bang...    

Bollocks, Broken Brain

Have you ever stalled out your thinking parts before?  Like, you've had so many thoughts stimulate your brain stem simultaneously that it stopped?  Ceased?  Succumbed to a frightening silence so loud and awful it made your ears bleed?  All.  Of.  The.  Time.  I took my recycling out the other day and I stumbled upon a couple more destitute than I.  Hard to imagine, I know.  I offered my defeated liquor bottles, having previously vanquished their innards.  They weren't remotely organized...such is existence.  I felt guilty, my mishmash of drunken folly.  The woman of the two humbly and rather graciously accepted my meager offering and took the liberty to pilfer my pitiful wares.  The man part remained yonder while I watched her take the goods.  I tried to make small talk about recycling but it felt so fucking false in the midst of her struggling to meet ends.  Perhaps she was merely using my kicks to afford her own.  They were white, so probably the case.  Caucasians love them some hooch.  As I awkwardly left the situation, she thanked me so honestly it made my heart hurt...after all, I didn't dump my junk in with the rest of the shit for them to sift through.  Yeah, I'm a real fucking saint.

On my travel back to my cozy apartment with bills paid and grub in the icebox, I noticed they had not enough garbage bag room for my vacant treasures.  I remarked and she said, 'We'll make do.'  Of course you will.  Look at you.  Twice my age with a man as useless as any, picking through a students(they don't know the difference) plastics to survive for the day.  Immediately my brain lit with fired contemplation:  I should take them in and make them some food.  Bet I have some clothes that'll fit her.  Fuck him.  Though stoic, what kind of a man allows his woman to do all the work in this homeless fucking charade?  Oh yeah...ALL OF THEM.  hahhahahahhahah.....ha.  Or maybe her torrid drug addiction has ruined them both and here they stand in love and loss to make a few pennies and get fucked.  Maybe they're not homeless and when I turn my back I'll get a nice garbage molded shiv in my back side.  Well, they're bags are clearly bursting and I have a whole box of em in the homey home.  I should grab them.  What if they get offended?  What if charity from someone such as myself, however homeless looking I may be, insults them?  I don't want to hurt their already shitty day.  Nobody thinks that lifestyle is ideal...even if you've never known any different.  Maybe they're wealthy stock owners who pick bottles to save the earth.  Maybe they'll use the bags I donate to suffocate baby ducks and then do a bunch of meth.  Then I'll be responsible for so much destruction and unhappiness...and baby duck carcasses.  Though I'm sure the bastards would then throw the bodies into the pond where their parents reside to witness the carnage and pain while doing it doggie-style on the gosling feathers that fell during the throttling.  What if I grab them the box of bags and they follow me home, take everything I own and leave me for dead after doing it doggie-style atop pictures of my family?

What if they really appreciate the help, however minuscule?

I feel guilty that all i can give is a box o bags.  Maybe i should donate them anonymously?  Like put them on top of the recycling units and scurry away into the day.  Getting credit for being nice is the antithesis of why someone should be kind.  What if they don't see them and they go to waste?  Then I've just littered like a pound of plastic into an already plastic rife wasteland.  Fuck it.  I'll put the box on something visible in their line of travel and hope they dig it.  These thoughts all occurred in the thirty seconds it took me to grab the roll of bags and ditch them on a garbage bin down the alley.  I.  Freak.  Who knew being sort of selfless was so gd exhausting.  Don't know if they got em either...

Growin' Up Is Hard to Do

I can be quite charming when I want to be.  I have to be inspired.  Damn you creative make-up!

I went to dance.

I went to move without restraint and to ignore.  I like ignoring them.  It feels like satisfaction.

I skipped by coat-check and breezed to the bathroom.  Chipmunk bladder.

I was motivated.  It felt right and I moved to the wood without fear.  A little nervous maybe.

I could feel their eyes and then didn't care.  I was lost.  Gone.  Freed and mobile.  It was brief.

I spoke to someone I shouldn't have.  She, without remorse, did her best to make me feel like nothing.  When I confirmed for her her bias, I calculated sheepish humility and slight embarrassment on her chocolate cheeks.  Then I bolted.

Smack dab into the chest of the Italian owner.  And I mean Italian.  He was short, greased thick hair, over fifty.  He was turtle necked and blazer-d.  Typical.  Weird how I keep meeting real-life caricatures.

He would have given me everything I wanted for the rest of my life.  I could tell by one glance in his catholic boy eyes...there is nothing that I would have asked for that would have been off limits.  I was Helen Hunt to his Moe.  You get it or you don't.  Idiots.

I walked.  Speedily away.  There was a time in my younger days when I would have capitalized on this poor rube.  I declined after a brief friendly chat and then proceeded to book it.

Black tears rolled down my face in secret privacy.  Am I too old for this?  Why must my morals prevent me from flailing madly on a dance floor?  I would not have to sleep with him to get my way, he, after all, offered.

I don't know how to use my power for good.  At least for personal gain.  It makes me sick to play these games but you're all so easy.  Goddamn is it simple to keep you morons on and on and on.  I hate you.

I just went to dance.  

Even the Chicks are Dicks

I had finally made a connection.  She is from Taiwan...barely a word of proper English comes out of her but I can tell she gets it.  We bonded over our inappropriate bouts of laughter, our hatred of others and our take on the opposite sex.  For months.  She began to hate her position and required a change.  I understood though I was admittedly sad to see her go.  Who would I relate to now?  The receptionists are kinda cool but you just know those bitches are stabbing everything they have for you directly into your spinal column.  

Her last day with me I bashfully kicked the ground whilst we shared the perpetual elevator that has both saved and plagued me.  I spoke softly and with a smile and said, 'So, are ya gonna miss me?'

She paused briefly, made eye contact and plainly asked, 'What is there to miss?'







It's beautiful here and everybody sucks.  Truly.  I guess that's the balance.  The bitter and the sweet.  It's just odd to experience them at the same time.  Usually one follows the other and overtime your perspective changes(hopefully), and you face less of the hardships and more of the beauty.  It's a gorgeous thing being a witness to this creation.  Lo, I would forever rather understand this world in all its uncomfortable hideousness than to buy into something that wasn't real or confirmed thusly.  We know it when we see it people.  Mayhaps i grow vigorously weary of the city life.  I love the culture, the art, the infrastructure and the amenities.  I miss community, connection, and the solidarity between a bunch of drunkards on a Sunday night after imbibing all day on a deck in the warm sun and cool breeze.  I don't know where I belong yet and I can't bear the thought of going back.  Everybody goes back soon enough and I always always feel sorry for them.  Like something great and interesting about them is now lost forever.  They gave up.  I don't want to feel like I gave up.  Ever.  

I guess I'll always have the words.

A Bug's Life...

I bought a bottle of expensive liquor this eve to impress a boy.  What silliness is this?  I know better.  I know better than to impress those unimpressible.  You're not affected by anything other than your cocks and they are the most boring of all the appendages.  Seriously fucking boring.  Too small.  Too lame.  Never enough or what you thought they'd bring you.  Save your effort girls...it makes no matter.

I was in the shower recently.  It happens to the best of us.  I turned in time to witness a large, creepy(they are all so) nothing but legs sort of creature in my bathtub.  He made great strides in avoiding the tumultuous waves of soapy, tepid water;  Crawling upwards behind the curtain I figured he had made it and briefly forgot about his struggle.  A few bubbles and precious seconds later I see that he had lost his battle with my awesome water pressure and succumbed to the fierce tirade of H20.  He fought briefly before I aided in his death.  But the point of the matter....he fought.  He did not go gentle into the good night but battled against the dying of the light.  Why?  He was a fucking arachnid not like any other born 350 million years ago.  How many have existed in that time...unimaginable.  Yet, he wrestled with his death like it meant something.  Perhaps only to his fifty thousand new borns back home or for the love of a good arachnid woman he once knew many a millennium before.  In the face of the abyss he or I suppose, she, disputed with great vigor its untimely and surprised end.  A bug.  A creature so tiny and insignificant we squash and wash them down tub drains.  Its skirmish with the black cloaked devil ended in defeat and I witnessed the endeavor.  Where do we fit in to that scheme?  Would I fight with such tenacity?  Would I realize the imminent end and continue the struggle til my last breath evaded me?  Who knows what we're all capable of.

If a spider can look death in the eye and for whatever reason tell silence itself to go fuck itself...how will I find myself in such an instance?  Will I have the wherewithal to defend my existence so furtively?  I sure as fuck hope so.

Dream Girl

I'm alive.  That should be enough.  I exist and know this to be fact, at least in my limited consciousness.  Not sure why but that should also be enough.  What does a person do when they are dreamless?  Not nightie-night sleepy time dreams but the kind that held you together through the nightmare of invisibility that is high school or the one that made you feel real all throughout your twenties.  I don't know where to put my efforts anymore.  Where do i place my hope and longing for things better?

It's raining still and I didn't go to work.  I couldn't quite see the point.  I mean, I see the point in that I require money to function in this ridiculousness we call a society but otherwise, really?  What purpose does me going to work serve?  Everyone drives me nuts.  My family barely answers my calls anymore cuz I have nothing to say.  I haven't made any friends here.  Any attempt I make to foster relationships with those from my past haven't gone quite the way I was hoping for.  Perhaps that's my problem.  Having hope that my expectations will fulfill themselves is ludicrous.  Crass.  Absurd.  My efforts to stimulate myself creatively have left me feeling even emptier.  fuckthistown.  The roles for woman here are garbage.  And I'm not black so there's no market.  I could go home I suppose.  I get work there.  I have friends there.  Familia tires of me but they'd be a fuck of a lot closer.  Oh and my romantic life is nonexistent so there's that as well.  Not that being landlocked really opened any enchanting doors of eros.

This is why having a job was created you know.  Less time for us creatively inclined types to think and stew in our own miserable juices.

I met a russian man.  He is a caricature of himself.  He knows his way around a pussy but can't stay hard.  He has this killer body, no sense of humor and isn't very bright.  I feel as though he wants to be but I cannot live on other peoples potential anymore.  It's bullshit anyway.  What you want to be ain't who you are son.  Even the ones who strike a person as honest lie to retrieve what they want.  Usually sex.  I wish I could be motivated by something so simple.  I had discourse with a brown guy and he said that the number one motivating factor for women in this life is stability.  Ask enough questions, he said, and it all comes down to that.  If that's the fucking answer, why aren't I blissful?  Perhaps an afternoon filled with Tom Cruise, a spliff and popcorn will cure all my mental deficiencies.  Save me Maverick!

Let the Train Whistle Cry for You

I am the lonely train's horn blowing in the not too distant future.  I lumber past but catch the eye of those involved.  Large, untimely, and without remorse.  I pass in the night with little notice and yet touching those open to hear the mournful cry.  Always headed somewhere and nowhere all at once.  no stopping.  never resting.  My brain knows not what the body does and yet it all connects in a mass of metal and screaming joints.  The thick metal carcass travels abroad knowing fully it's all the same.  They'll all be the same.  Predictable.  The troubled wind blows against my immensity.  I strive against time itself.  Searching, longing...meager.  Mediocrity seems welcome relief after the travels I've seen.  Something still amiss, I will trudge through the broken tracks and fallen timber.  A heartbeat pulses in time with my increasing movement and I pass through yet another town of faces I've seen all too often before.  They are mere remnants of myself;  Facets of my own personality.  Together, each a car of it's own yet all secured to the other.  We'll come back someday, if we do not lose our way.  Let the train whistle cry for you.  Let it bring you back to where you belong...joined to the rest with iron and solder.  We will remain unbreakable, unleashed and attached until time itself tears us from the other with rust and stoic grace.