It wasn't too long ago, I was riding the El with no place to go and a pocket full of free money. Things really haven't changed that much. Seasons diminish, then move on. The trees in the backyard wither then reload. Children grow older, different people mildly disperse throughout renovated public transit stations. Different sport franchises win the same championships, etc.
I was an adolescent youngster once, peering out onto urban concrete walkways on Sunday afternoons, amidst the quaint, silent, sleeping city.
I was a middle aged suburban trophy housewife once hooked on Valiums, getting lost in Supermarkets, it ended badly.
Once I was a retired man in his early '60s, with heart palpitations. I kept my heart pills handy in case another episode was to arise. Avoiding sodium, sex, and prime-time television. My wife kept leaving her fashion magazines sordidly scattered round our poorly decorated household. I told my psychiatrist about how they aroused me, she doesn't leave her magazines around anymore.
Once I was a confused young man in his early twenties, I thought I knew everything. I was into desire, lust, fantasy, unfathomable ideals, and crazed imagination. I wanted everything but did not want to work. My girlfriend and I saved our hard earned money and took a two week Summer vacation to Aruba. Needless to say we had an awful time. By the third day we were mercilessly hung over throwing up house tequila and sea salt rimmed margaritas. On a cruise way out into the vast Atlantic, on the fourth day I took our six-disc C.D. changer and whirled it overboard out into the deep unforgiving ocean. Living with acquired disbelief in what most people "claim to be important", is not very beneficial when residing among the masses.
In the long felt Summer days of "white russians" by bedside, waking up on the fourth story apartment building floor was my underlying theme. Onto the neighborhood diner, then the dollar store was the weekend routine. I somehow managed to drag a few people down with me in my young adult years temporarily, they'd always move on. I was the type of guy who showed up for work drunk, then quit. After about a week I'd be back at your restaurant begging for work.
The past few years of drifting exasperated me beyond condolences. I haven't lived anywhere permanently since I can remember. It starts to Fuck with you after awhile. I miss the free money, quack doctors, and connections I used to have. Yearning for freedom I possessed in younger years. The kids these days don't understand what it is to be free. It isn't good to value "things" too much, or be afraid of people. I've been through this process more times than I would like to admit. Jail, crack-houses,shooting galleries, planned parenthood, bodegas on Kensington Ave., massage parlors, homeless in the city,cheap hotels, abandoned warehouses, dive bars, strip malls, psychiatric hospitals , rehabs, the list goes on endlessly.
What I'm trying to say isn't of use to people, it is just me writing for the sake of it. It is what I like to do, then if you don't like it, don't read it, and for god sake don't take my advise. Leave it where you found it, on the doorstop of resignation, meanwhile I'll be out walking these streets in search of something I'll only find in books and lucid dreaming.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
"Above and below Heidi"
Let's face it Heidi, I never wanted you to have two kids with Angry John, the raving alcoholic ex-marine who befriended all the bartenders in the local saloon below your living quarters. Your twin sister told you the same thing many times before, (although she grew bald due to chemo), you never listened, you had to have things your way (you always did). Then Angry John the ex-marine left you and the kids alone above the saloon, where I'd find you months later on the same stool I left you that night, when I told you about my love for you, and I how I hated your sister (although she grew bald due to chemo).
The season we face is new for us Heidi, though we have grown tired and lonely apart from one another. I shall move in with you and the children. I'll provide food for your family with monthly stamps while I drink through the night, pounding the pavement for work amid brutal daytime hours. We'll make love in your upstairs apartment when your mother takes the kids. I'll bring diapers and microwaved perishables home upon returning from the liquor store. You always had a great ass Heidi, not quite as good as before your pregnancy, but nonetheless pretty good.
Honestly Heidi I must admit that kids are a big turn off for me. I never liked rug-rats one bit, since I need a place to live, I'll make this exception. I don't like the way they smell, how they act, or how they're constantly judging me.
I must admit it is a bit strange finding myself here with you, in the same place we would drink after hours years ago, before your children. You are that same wild eyed strawberry blond I knew, you just aged a little.Things were different then, we had more ambition, I know I did. We'd sit in front of the television in your well furnished living room on a purple sofa, complaining about our time at work that day.
God I hate this neighborhood, with it's middle upper class restaurants and nick knack havens, everyone thinks they're so goddamn special, well I don't. They all remember me around here Heidi. I sure left my mark ten years ago. Do me a favor, let me know before your your sister comes over so I can make plans to go out, even if it is just down the stairs to get shitfaced, you got Angry John's telephone number? I'd like to call him, let him know that he's the biggest piece of shit this side of the turnpike, or whatever county we are in. Better yet I'll phone his mother and call her a cunt, the mommas boy that he is.
The season we face is new for us Heidi, though we have grown tired and lonely apart from one another. I shall move in with you and the children. I'll provide food for your family with monthly stamps while I drink through the night, pounding the pavement for work amid brutal daytime hours. We'll make love in your upstairs apartment when your mother takes the kids. I'll bring diapers and microwaved perishables home upon returning from the liquor store. You always had a great ass Heidi, not quite as good as before your pregnancy, but nonetheless pretty good.
Honestly Heidi I must admit that kids are a big turn off for me. I never liked rug-rats one bit, since I need a place to live, I'll make this exception. I don't like the way they smell, how they act, or how they're constantly judging me.
I must admit it is a bit strange finding myself here with you, in the same place we would drink after hours years ago, before your children. You are that same wild eyed strawberry blond I knew, you just aged a little.Things were different then, we had more ambition, I know I did. We'd sit in front of the television in your well furnished living room on a purple sofa, complaining about our time at work that day.
God I hate this neighborhood, with it's middle upper class restaurants and nick knack havens, everyone thinks they're so goddamn special, well I don't. They all remember me around here Heidi. I sure left my mark ten years ago. Do me a favor, let me know before your your sister comes over so I can make plans to go out, even if it is just down the stairs to get shitfaced, you got Angry John's telephone number? I'd like to call him, let him know that he's the biggest piece of shit this side of the turnpike, or whatever county we are in. Better yet I'll phone his mother and call her a cunt, the mommas boy that he is.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Rainy Day Gina
In beaded rainbow canopy windows, the daytime blue curtains of Gina's living room apartment. Up the tenement staircase to her rainy evening second story balcony. Over teatime conversations, the blanketed coffee table carpeted with cigarette ash. On previous afternoons, I the local bus-stop bathroom attendant boy, crying into my coffee, telling her how I miss the city. She would comfort me in artificial lampshade corridors. It was the crinkled poster corners that aligned her plum painted walls. Brown-eyed and on Sunday were her words reassuringly: "I as the city, am always here for you, just as the dope man laboring on dimly lit street corners isn't going anywhere neither".
Alcoholic on Monday morning Gina. Night red lipstick Gina. The Gina who befriends circus outcasts, and wrong caused left-wing politicians. Poetry readings beneath regional hallway railings Gina. The five stringed guitar degenerate Gina. Decades overcast her delicate feminine features below crimson nightfall. Misplaced Ginsberg generation of practical joking Gina. April fools two months too late Gina. Silken snow faeries sprinkling pale sultry morning sand upon her nocturnal eyeliner Gina.
Towards the end of an all-niter weekend, spending all night talking over domesticated beer cans and pharmaceutical amphetamine. She was all wound up on showing me her high school senior year photograph. Class of '99, denim slacks and Marlboro fingertips, deep in her densely outlined mascara framed portrait. She did not age well in her '30s, neither did I. Sleep comes as a reclusive thief in the night does on stale mornings such as these.
After work I scuttle through neighborhood blueprint mazes, beyond backyard landscapes, upon cemented sidewalk boundary lines. Escaping the tarantula-like citizen extravaganza. Blood pumping through my veins like heat simmering off a freshly cocked pistol. Gun powder wreckage sums up my days, time spent here upon the torturous front line of civilization. Into her frail needle pierced arms I run. Gina, you understand the irony of humanity. You breath the overwhelming awe of the Hindenburg and Titanic. You throw yourself to the urban township wolf boys every breeding moment, in gnashing pools of maroon blood stains, upon linoleum kitchen floor boards of panic.
We were not cut out for this life or any other Gina. Let us toast to rainy day seasons delicately before we die, savoring your dead mothers ashes, and mine. Echoing dismal voices that surround the remote canyon. Let our souls ride and dance out into the wild together, one last time before we go, you with the generics, and I with the name brand.
Alcoholic on Monday morning Gina. Night red lipstick Gina. The Gina who befriends circus outcasts, and wrong caused left-wing politicians. Poetry readings beneath regional hallway railings Gina. The five stringed guitar degenerate Gina. Decades overcast her delicate feminine features below crimson nightfall. Misplaced Ginsberg generation of practical joking Gina. April fools two months too late Gina. Silken snow faeries sprinkling pale sultry morning sand upon her nocturnal eyeliner Gina.
Towards the end of an all-niter weekend, spending all night talking over domesticated beer cans and pharmaceutical amphetamine. She was all wound up on showing me her high school senior year photograph. Class of '99, denim slacks and Marlboro fingertips, deep in her densely outlined mascara framed portrait. She did not age well in her '30s, neither did I. Sleep comes as a reclusive thief in the night does on stale mornings such as these.
After work I scuttle through neighborhood blueprint mazes, beyond backyard landscapes, upon cemented sidewalk boundary lines. Escaping the tarantula-like citizen extravaganza. Blood pumping through my veins like heat simmering off a freshly cocked pistol. Gun powder wreckage sums up my days, time spent here upon the torturous front line of civilization. Into her frail needle pierced arms I run. Gina, you understand the irony of humanity. You breath the overwhelming awe of the Hindenburg and Titanic. You throw yourself to the urban township wolf boys every breeding moment, in gnashing pools of maroon blood stains, upon linoleum kitchen floor boards of panic.
We were not cut out for this life or any other Gina. Let us toast to rainy day seasons delicately before we die, savoring your dead mothers ashes, and mine. Echoing dismal voices that surround the remote canyon. Let our souls ride and dance out into the wild together, one last time before we go, you with the generics, and I with the name brand.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
While the Women Were Sleeping.
I've been waking up a lot lately in ruptured public thresholds, where vulturous county police run circles around my throbbing head, embedded in the stale soil. Daily living has become a homeless drunken mockery, a chore of sordid living. In the master's chambers, upon the township ravine, we pour endless bourbon into stained glass containers. Enveloped in these rural walls, domesticated in the well furnished moonlight. It is the women in my life that have held me together. Afternoon slumbers, we perspire restlessly in tranquil Sunday heat, the urban comforter, the lazy recliner. Sunlight perishes upon desolate walkways, left vacant. Unwinding melancholy thoughts dwindle drearily along community outlet stores.
Sisters of desperation, Theresa of the blood, Margaret of living ends. Say a few words girls. Speak to the dismal audience. Perhaps explain the folly of vulnerable men like me. The boundaries between decrepit alleyways and formidable perimeters. I've grown weary at best beside sparkling city fountains. Daylight water shimmers in primitive eloquence, the pedestrian magnitudes grow way out of hand here darling. These women have spoken to me in darkened jailhouse corridors, came visiting me upon bourgeois Summer hospital beds. Tidy white sheets, the translucent mirror on the pillared wall in front of an empty room.
Today I found myself alone on a park bench, aside the winding river. It was then that a feminine voice resounded vibrancy in the depth of my fatigued consciousness. Mother is yet to fail my childlike premonitions, springtime lessons, steady teachings of vocabulary and arithmetic. It was Miss Nancy that came to me in the first grade. The hearth of her loins amidst her pale milky thighs stained unforgettable impressions into my adolescent realm. Decades later, it is I who pays societies debts. A criminal, a vagabond, an impoverished migrant. I've roamed these dried out farmlands looking for work, a way to support my starving family. We were young and foolish then, we were not thinking about times like these. We never planned anything, we sought pleasure much before wisdom.
It was in the sultry disgusting hour of morning, just before the scattered dawn. I crept out the kitchen screen door while the women were asleep. I felt my soul heavily falling beneath my foreboding footsteps. I saw my breathing moments flicker greatly beyond the remote silhouetted mountains. When I came to the center of the same barley field I would frequent as a child with my sisters. I pulled a cold moist .48 from my faded trousers, gently caressed it's metallic weight against my frail temple, the sun commenced to peek through the skies eastern chamber, gently squeezing the trigger, while the women were sleeping.
Sisters of desperation, Theresa of the blood, Margaret of living ends. Say a few words girls. Speak to the dismal audience. Perhaps explain the folly of vulnerable men like me. The boundaries between decrepit alleyways and formidable perimeters. I've grown weary at best beside sparkling city fountains. Daylight water shimmers in primitive eloquence, the pedestrian magnitudes grow way out of hand here darling. These women have spoken to me in darkened jailhouse corridors, came visiting me upon bourgeois Summer hospital beds. Tidy white sheets, the translucent mirror on the pillared wall in front of an empty room.
Today I found myself alone on a park bench, aside the winding river. It was then that a feminine voice resounded vibrancy in the depth of my fatigued consciousness. Mother is yet to fail my childlike premonitions, springtime lessons, steady teachings of vocabulary and arithmetic. It was Miss Nancy that came to me in the first grade. The hearth of her loins amidst her pale milky thighs stained unforgettable impressions into my adolescent realm. Decades later, it is I who pays societies debts. A criminal, a vagabond, an impoverished migrant. I've roamed these dried out farmlands looking for work, a way to support my starving family. We were young and foolish then, we were not thinking about times like these. We never planned anything, we sought pleasure much before wisdom.
It was in the sultry disgusting hour of morning, just before the scattered dawn. I crept out the kitchen screen door while the women were asleep. I felt my soul heavily falling beneath my foreboding footsteps. I saw my breathing moments flicker greatly beyond the remote silhouetted mountains. When I came to the center of the same barley field I would frequent as a child with my sisters. I pulled a cold moist .48 from my faded trousers, gently caressed it's metallic weight against my frail temple, the sun commenced to peek through the skies eastern chamber, gently squeezing the trigger, while the women were sleeping.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Suzy Sue and the Lighthouse Blues
Her breathing passes out-of -town boxcar vestibules, amidst shattered glass and forlorn curtains. We are all being swept away, diminishing softly to velvet skyline, below the coming nightfall. Softly descending, her words are delicate, her shrill immaculate, stored away in dusty cupboards aside the vacant mausoleum. Wooden symmetry, it is of the angelic variety, she hums a dated tune upon her deathbed. The air is lazy and stiff, Suzy Sue and her county line ethics. We toasted blood in brighter days, where vibrancy soaked her feminine flesh in mnemonic undertones. I had time then, time to ponder song in daytime pastures. Afternoon breezes would graze the interior lining of her violet skirt, in framed innocence of inquisitive blackbirds, imploring the crescent oak, through frail premonitions of a jaded sky.
Nocturnal at best, this year leaves me sighing in ghastly intervals. The pale boughs of Autumn hung before the swaying mantle. Adorned in cherry lacquer, the poison berries that glaze diamond chandeliers, hung still between creaking floorboards, and pillared marble ceilings. She has come and left before me once again. She was a morbid guinea pig of heavenly options, she bled with the fluctuating seasons, imprisoning her voluptuous vulnerability to night time deity, dangling pulsating limbs from perpetual staircase landings.
The tide rolls in gently from the the midnight Pacific, then roars from ivory crests in damp evenings amongst rainfall. The incandescent light beams mount their way through thick heavy clouds, off the Western shoreline, while the village sleeps. The grim lighthouse watchman keeps tabs with the national guard over tedious charades of solitaire and chess. Flimsy screen doors that swing out onto the bay window, generations of bell ringers, and grave diggers, whirl ceramic plates in domestic upheaval among these poorly furnished quarters. Impoverished, I was when we first met. We were young on Tuesday mornings, amid the daily market, scents of raw dead fish and putrid oyster shells still fill my inflamed nostrils with nauseating remembrance of you, Suzy sue, and ol' desolate me, with the lighthouse blues, once again.
Nocturnal at best, this year leaves me sighing in ghastly intervals. The pale boughs of Autumn hung before the swaying mantle. Adorned in cherry lacquer, the poison berries that glaze diamond chandeliers, hung still between creaking floorboards, and pillared marble ceilings. She has come and left before me once again. She was a morbid guinea pig of heavenly options, she bled with the fluctuating seasons, imprisoning her voluptuous vulnerability to night time deity, dangling pulsating limbs from perpetual staircase landings.
The tide rolls in gently from the the midnight Pacific, then roars from ivory crests in damp evenings amongst rainfall. The incandescent light beams mount their way through thick heavy clouds, off the Western shoreline, while the village sleeps. The grim lighthouse watchman keeps tabs with the national guard over tedious charades of solitaire and chess. Flimsy screen doors that swing out onto the bay window, generations of bell ringers, and grave diggers, whirl ceramic plates in domestic upheaval among these poorly furnished quarters. Impoverished, I was when we first met. We were young on Tuesday mornings, amid the daily market, scents of raw dead fish and putrid oyster shells still fill my inflamed nostrils with nauseating remembrance of you, Suzy sue, and ol' desolate me, with the lighthouse blues, once again.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
These Trains Won't Stop Runnin'
Yield to your stern fathers in the hearth of their teachings, make daily memos in dated calendars that collect dust upon deserted shelves, beside the black and white family tree binder. See how Aunt Rose once lived, loved and perished south of the railway line. Smoke clouds descend to the soiled earth, left permeating throughout scattered vision, of ghost and silhouettes. This wine you drink is blood of the burial, the souls that vanished amidst lost decades and faded seasons of torrid land ownership.
Listen little girl, daughter, these were coal miners of centuries of which no migrant pays tribute to. The fuel, the barley, the shellfish that washed up upon ancient shorelines rests in deserted cloisters, lost decaying below unforgiving suns. Now, find time to play and tease in innocent bouquets of laughter. Truth be knowing that these vulnerabilities are forever, however your flesh is brief and instant, and these trains won't stop running for nobody, they'll persevere long past the minute beating of frail hearts in remote cemeteries.
The courtyard romance leaves bad taste among native mouths of discreet ancestors that reminisce deceased couples. It ended badly as it usually does, and even if it didn't it wouldn't matter and these trains won't stop running for nobody no matter how rich, poor, content, or disconcerted. When grandfather was a boy he'd awake onto barnyard landscapes, the crow, the cock, the metal spoon misplaced among thrift store time lines. Withered monuments lose grip on portraying importance, as does your breathe escape you in the morbid folly of grief and statistics.
Use your leisure wisely, don't smoke cigarettes in the eye of the storm, youth is a distant playground that unfolds exponentially in the jesters fluorescent cloak. A memory glazed the elderly woman's eyelids, as she gazed out onto foiled scenery of endless acres of vast cornfields. This is death, it is what you always wanted, it's what leaves your lips dry and stale in vacant moon lit hours. It wasn't a dream, it is the unforgiving reality that you know will find you, grasp you , carve your insides out and throw them onto the surreal cutting board of logic.
Listen little girl, daughter, these were coal miners of centuries of which no migrant pays tribute to. The fuel, the barley, the shellfish that washed up upon ancient shorelines rests in deserted cloisters, lost decaying below unforgiving suns. Now, find time to play and tease in innocent bouquets of laughter. Truth be knowing that these vulnerabilities are forever, however your flesh is brief and instant, and these trains won't stop running for nobody, they'll persevere long past the minute beating of frail hearts in remote cemeteries.
The courtyard romance leaves bad taste among native mouths of discreet ancestors that reminisce deceased couples. It ended badly as it usually does, and even if it didn't it wouldn't matter and these trains won't stop running for nobody no matter how rich, poor, content, or disconcerted. When grandfather was a boy he'd awake onto barnyard landscapes, the crow, the cock, the metal spoon misplaced among thrift store time lines. Withered monuments lose grip on portraying importance, as does your breathe escape you in the morbid folly of grief and statistics.
Use your leisure wisely, don't smoke cigarettes in the eye of the storm, youth is a distant playground that unfolds exponentially in the jesters fluorescent cloak. A memory glazed the elderly woman's eyelids, as she gazed out onto foiled scenery of endless acres of vast cornfields. This is death, it is what you always wanted, it's what leaves your lips dry and stale in vacant moon lit hours. It wasn't a dream, it is the unforgiving reality that you know will find you, grasp you , carve your insides out and throw them onto the surreal cutting board of logic.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
"Notice Of Eviction"
1) My roommate rolled himself off of his deflated inflatable mattress one afternoon, atop the gritty porcelain cockroach infested floor. I was working down on the Main St. of town waiting tables, throwing up amidst the outside bushes that aligned the patio with tables. Working the lunch shift, so later on I would meet him during shift change. It was in the dimly lit downstairs dining room that he pulled a folded letter from his torn pocket, a "Notice of Eviction" it read.
It all started previously in disastrous drunken intervals. Quite a bit of waking up in the hallway of my old apartment building. I'd reach my capable peak every night entertaining coworkers, and many other misfits and degenerates. Then it soon became time for me to get my own place across the street, with no furniture and plenty of infestation that lived and breed in the mangled urban woodwork. I decided to make the best of the situation. I would drink myself to sleep every night, this way I would not mind the roaches. I remember walking to the bus stop one early afternoon and thinking that I could to this the rest of my life.
2) In the long drawn out Summer days of the bunny, looking into to my bedroom closet. Cardboard boxes I used as pillars to pile stacks of c.d.s on. Mom's Easter basket assortment rested way out of hand in the desolate corner of solitude. Feeble attempts at achieving contentment would fall short. Depression fluctuating between seasons and situations. Drowning in the vast thawed out sea of vodka and bad cocaine. Then there were many trivial escapades of desperation. I would get many late rides home from the bar after it closed.
3) A woman in her early twenties dropped me off one night, she rolled down the car window to say goodbye, I reached my head in and tried to kiss her, she said "no, I don't like you like that", it was a shame, I was not ashamed. When I had a pocket full of drugs I'd be excited and run all the way up the staircase to the fourth-story floor trembling with nervous energy.
4( "They had to calm me down")
They would always have to calm me down, if I didn't calm down then I would be asked to leave, then if I wouldn't leave, they would have no choice, but to call the police. One night a veteran of the "War on Iraq" insisted on giving me a ride home from my daily local watering hole. Then in the midst of his driving I begged and pleaded for him to let me out so I could go back to the bar and score some coke, he would not budge, so I jumped out of his car and hit the heavy street going about thirty five miles per hour. I couldn't figure out why I woke up the next morning with two sprained ankles.
5( "Birthday")
My birthday would come once a year. Whenever it came I used to try to get off work. I usually did. The day would pass just as fast as any other. It all went by in the same breezy mental discombobulation. I'd awake just as pissed off at the world as I was before.
6 (A Possible Conclusion)
Is there a possible conclusion to this sordid puzzling piece of scandalous notoriety? I wish there was, since then it's all just another day trying keep my head above water, remaining free from the confines of the law, or the corrupt legal system that insists people like me should pay back there dues to society, for things I've done to myself.
It all started previously in disastrous drunken intervals. Quite a bit of waking up in the hallway of my old apartment building. I'd reach my capable peak every night entertaining coworkers, and many other misfits and degenerates. Then it soon became time for me to get my own place across the street, with no furniture and plenty of infestation that lived and breed in the mangled urban woodwork. I decided to make the best of the situation. I would drink myself to sleep every night, this way I would not mind the roaches. I remember walking to the bus stop one early afternoon and thinking that I could to this the rest of my life.
2) In the long drawn out Summer days of the bunny, looking into to my bedroom closet. Cardboard boxes I used as pillars to pile stacks of c.d.s on. Mom's Easter basket assortment rested way out of hand in the desolate corner of solitude. Feeble attempts at achieving contentment would fall short. Depression fluctuating between seasons and situations. Drowning in the vast thawed out sea of vodka and bad cocaine. Then there were many trivial escapades of desperation. I would get many late rides home from the bar after it closed.
3) A woman in her early twenties dropped me off one night, she rolled down the car window to say goodbye, I reached my head in and tried to kiss her, she said "no, I don't like you like that", it was a shame, I was not ashamed. When I had a pocket full of drugs I'd be excited and run all the way up the staircase to the fourth-story floor trembling with nervous energy.
4( "They had to calm me down")
They would always have to calm me down, if I didn't calm down then I would be asked to leave, then if I wouldn't leave, they would have no choice, but to call the police. One night a veteran of the "War on Iraq" insisted on giving me a ride home from my daily local watering hole. Then in the midst of his driving I begged and pleaded for him to let me out so I could go back to the bar and score some coke, he would not budge, so I jumped out of his car and hit the heavy street going about thirty five miles per hour. I couldn't figure out why I woke up the next morning with two sprained ankles.
5( "Birthday")
My birthday would come once a year. Whenever it came I used to try to get off work. I usually did. The day would pass just as fast as any other. It all went by in the same breezy mental discombobulation. I'd awake just as pissed off at the world as I was before.
6 (A Possible Conclusion)
Is there a possible conclusion to this sordid puzzling piece of scandalous notoriety? I wish there was, since then it's all just another day trying keep my head above water, remaining free from the confines of the law, or the corrupt legal system that insists people like me should pay back there dues to society, for things I've done to myself.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Senile Corridors
I had all of my limbs once in a day. Laboring in the canyons luminous circles. Shadows graced moonlit perimeters down upon the granite carpet. My arms went completely numb in the afternoon (although I could see them). Sweat circled around my childish brow. My elbows bent and wrinkled in the obtuse year of the pilgrim. Boulders capsized my youth onto present anguish. Awakening in painful realities, a frustrated tormented existence. Walked upon dry cement pavements leading closer to elimination arenas.
He, the gladiator that flourished bloom, pervading the boys vision in senile corridors. The ghost that inhabits Sundays lacquered candles and pillared walls that bend through psychedelic delusion. Young angels sweep their loveliness under adorned rugs of cough syrup lingo. The saloon at the bowling alley, the middle aged barmaid, the Jersey whore with too much make up winks her black mascara feline eyelids at me, yielding the assumption that I understand her signal. I do, but I am afraid. I am petrified of her in the daytime womb. Her daily afternoon saga of showers and rubbing alcohol.
It is the threatening morning that wounds me into relentless submission. My death is timely and sudden in atrophied timelines and boring melting pots. Poets in the rainy street season will shrug their slumping shoulders, bewildered at free money and newspaper headlines, below the running facet skies of Brooklyn. My soul emerges downward through bathtub drainpipes. Shingles on the roof grow sharp at the corners, then sleeping at midnight with relief, their work is done. The staggering drunks at streetlight intersections, the meaty cops that want to go home to their refrigerated beer and television, they want to pump their penis into well furnished bathroom aromas.
We'd sit on her aunts sofa amidst the mid 80's, in a southern Philly row-home.Watching soap operas in sultry afternoons, sipping Diet Pepsi through bendy straws. I played hooky one too many times. I pay the price later on, dreaming fantasies of suburban housewives that I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole.
He, the gladiator that flourished bloom, pervading the boys vision in senile corridors. The ghost that inhabits Sundays lacquered candles and pillared walls that bend through psychedelic delusion. Young angels sweep their loveliness under adorned rugs of cough syrup lingo. The saloon at the bowling alley, the middle aged barmaid, the Jersey whore with too much make up winks her black mascara feline eyelids at me, yielding the assumption that I understand her signal. I do, but I am afraid. I am petrified of her in the daytime womb. Her daily afternoon saga of showers and rubbing alcohol.
It is the threatening morning that wounds me into relentless submission. My death is timely and sudden in atrophied timelines and boring melting pots. Poets in the rainy street season will shrug their slumping shoulders, bewildered at free money and newspaper headlines, below the running facet skies of Brooklyn. My soul emerges downward through bathtub drainpipes. Shingles on the roof grow sharp at the corners, then sleeping at midnight with relief, their work is done. The staggering drunks at streetlight intersections, the meaty cops that want to go home to their refrigerated beer and television, they want to pump their penis into well furnished bathroom aromas.
We'd sit on her aunts sofa amidst the mid 80's, in a southern Philly row-home.Watching soap operas in sultry afternoons, sipping Diet Pepsi through bendy straws. I played hooky one too many times. I pay the price later on, dreaming fantasies of suburban housewives that I wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Midnight Perimeters
Layered in satin, stretched loosely out across cotton bedsheets. It is the fragile, vulnerable hours, of upheaval and formidable dismay . Nightgowns of old song and binding. Years of fainted medallions and frail withered oak, mounting the midnight skies through sold afternoon drapery. Old catalogs and time, we hung on tight, through faded stories and pages. It was her dead husband's cloak that swarmed her pale eyelids to placid symmetrical framing. The adjacent apartment bathroom, with windows open, letting late breezes in to rest around her pale wrinkled skin.
Domestic carpeting, soiled and crimson in unraveling boundaries. Tricks being played upon elderly vision. Porcelain and crinkled, crackled and torn. Ripped coupons in Sunday purses upon township bus stations. Ticketed and supervised, placement homes in thwarted recreational expectation. Below vacant park pavilions, encounters prevailed in historical measurement. Air-conditioned in the Summer, on lacquered coffee-tables beside the television. Portraying commercial intervals, in minute seconds ticking, to dark impending doom, or raw immaculate heavens, aside the cross, the Christ, or blood-red jewelery.
Cars motored once across this dismal plateau, amidst the tranquil heat of the season. Transactions once placed in the hearth of youthful utopias. Sweat profusely dripped in laborious awakenings, then unfolded to logical assumptions. Henry, the youthful used car salesman, (her husband) would surprise her in post-wedding arenas. Gorgeous sunflowers would dry onto decaying disintegration, before the valley's peak. It was the materialistic folly of money and hardship, upon their suburban perimeter.
Broken in beside abandoned highways. Sordid trash piles being heaped in towering mounds upon rupturing pavements. Alleyways of old to bring in the new fresh springtime pain of early adulthood. Watch it linger, heaving in tedious annoyance. See flesh aflame below radiant suns, and toxic disposal. The credit card plastic molds to sizzling sidewalks.
Domestic carpeting, soiled and crimson in unraveling boundaries. Tricks being played upon elderly vision. Porcelain and crinkled, crackled and torn. Ripped coupons in Sunday purses upon township bus stations. Ticketed and supervised, placement homes in thwarted recreational expectation. Below vacant park pavilions, encounters prevailed in historical measurement. Air-conditioned in the Summer, on lacquered coffee-tables beside the television. Portraying commercial intervals, in minute seconds ticking, to dark impending doom, or raw immaculate heavens, aside the cross, the Christ, or blood-red jewelery.
Cars motored once across this dismal plateau, amidst the tranquil heat of the season. Transactions once placed in the hearth of youthful utopias. Sweat profusely dripped in laborious awakenings, then unfolded to logical assumptions. Henry, the youthful used car salesman, (her husband) would surprise her in post-wedding arenas. Gorgeous sunflowers would dry onto decaying disintegration, before the valley's peak. It was the materialistic folly of money and hardship, upon their suburban perimeter.
Broken in beside abandoned highways. Sordid trash piles being heaped in towering mounds upon rupturing pavements. Alleyways of old to bring in the new fresh springtime pain of early adulthood. Watch it linger, heaving in tedious annoyance. See flesh aflame below radiant suns, and toxic disposal. The credit card plastic molds to sizzling sidewalks.
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