And the sun light coagulated amidst the clouds, diffusing into a bruise radiating grapefruit-light onto a perfectly dark blue sky.
And the air conditioning hum-hum-hummmmms
in the cabin, and the baby cry-cry-cries and someday he
will be like his father. And the l a s t r a y s will shoot through
his eyes, piercing mucus member and cornia.
Shattered light, void within sockets and a blankness turning madness.
But its just a plane, and I’m only cold and restless watching the sunset high above fly-over-country.
Anonymous asked: fuck you're sexy
c’mere, i wanna wink at ya
A poet friend deftly handles a well articulated anonymous query
I skipped class to go to the courthouse, and in the wake
of my arraignment
Nicholas handed me a beer,
cold and sweating in the spring sun,
the walls of his house were
s p a r s e
only decorated by the occasional splash of
tomato sauce, flung from a fork in a moment of drunken revelry
and the bottles stacked above the television set.
Open windows face the street where the cyclists spin by
and in the winter, friends will make snow angels before they turn to grey matter
melting off towards the storm drains.
Staring towards the familiar street I sipped the beer
watching sparrows picking at the bones of a dead squirrel, dropping feathers
on hot pavement.
You took me in when I was at my worst
shaking mad, vomiting between drags of cigarettes
You chopped green onions on a filthy counter and fed me
beans while the cat licked at my boots. Your eyes were
hot like the tip of your cigarette, shining out from behind
a beard and black curls tucked under an old dirty cap.
You fed me
on Fridays after work, and gave me a beer
and put your arm around my shoulder when
everything went cold.
I’ll expect payment in the mail
and by that i mean i’ll sleep on your couch this winter if you’ll let me
and ask for a free sandwich while your cleaning the counters of the coffee shop downtown
and ask that you not ask too many questions or get too mad when a lover that we shared
walks through the door and talks to me while I’m making poor decisions
You’ll tolerate me like you always do and laugh with me when I realize I’m drinking too much
like you always do
and you’ll suggest that I switch to decaf while steam from the coffee swirls towards my nose
And I’ll try not to abuse your understanding
There is a very large man standing outside of my window
His face is round and he wears thin white beard
he cannot stop sneezing and there is a car passing down the street
It begins to rain
He is still standing there
outside my window and he cannot stop sneezing
looking in at my lamp in between head jerks and inhales
—NOTE: This is part of an on going story I’m writing involving the characters used in my post “Diner Blues.” The story is currently evolving as a collection of flash fiction, shorts, and poems. —
Steven stepped back into his apartment, reaching over his stomach to hold his right elbow, standing looking at the carpet, the dusty bookshelf, the cluttered coffee table. He walked to the bathroom and splashed water on his face and looked into the mirror, the same way he always did, to look himself in the eyes and calm himself down. To remember who he was and where he was and why he was.
But when Steven looked up, his pupils pinholed and he could not look away from the mirror. It was as if he had not seen himself since he was 16. His hair, falling in soft lazy curls around his face, greasy, unkempt. His face, which he had been neglecting to shave for several days now, looked peppered and the lines across it were something he felt he somehow hadn’t noticed yet. Laugh lines, a furrowed brow, his eyes sinking in slightly, red underneath from sleepless nights. He felt as if within himself he never aged past 16. Yes, his adolescent world felt like it was falling apart because of his bad acne and because Jessica broke up with him after a month. But things were in their place. It was a time he felt made sense. Even when things spun wildly out of control, it was logical.
Here, standing in an apartment in Queens, starring into his mirror, half drunk at 3pm on a Thursday. Here, an unshaven face that used to sing in church choir. Here, a continent away from everything that he wanted, knowing full well that even if he crossed that continent he would still want more, more of everything, more of nothing. More interaction, more money, more sex, more beer, more clothes, more gasoline in the tank, more work hours. Here, none of it made sense. Here, he was a stranger even to himself. The boy he once was became a man he hardly recognized. He stared at the mirror a long time and could not figure out what it was he could change. He starred for an hour, until he lost track of time, until he finally found the strength to drag himself to bed and lay looking up at the ceiling, remembering a time when his parents couldn’t figure out why he was crying. Now he wished he could cry but his body was no longer his, and his eyes were fixed on the fan hanging above his bed making slow, perfect circles.