Monday, May 26, 2014
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
ugly people fucking [written 2.6.2014]
MEN ALWAYS WAKE UP FIRST. AT LEAST, THAT’S WHAT KNOWLEDGE ONE CAN GLEAN FROM WATCHING TOO MANY ROMANTIC COMEDIES.
Keep telling yourself, he thought, as the light from the window became too bright to ignore, she is waking up to you just as much as you are waking up to her. Dust particles swim through slivers, and everything wears that nervous expectation of regret. He really wanted to do the right thing, in this scenario. He really didn’t want to be the next asshole link on a possibly unending chain. The very same kind of chain he himself had been dragging around since when he began hating his own reflection. He needed to pee…
She had been awake for at least 45 minutes before him. Trying her best to stave off both her urge to urinate, and her urge to flee. Somewhere else, like maybe the bathroom? Some personal obscurity in which she can hide, until he made his escape. Did I leave the lamp on?, she wondered, Did he see my stretch marks?
Outside, amidst the abyss which so many either take for granted, or simply ignore, there is a dreadful susurration of solitude. Everyone is lonely, in some way or another. No biochemical, genetic, scientific, nigh religious contrivance can quantify or define.
Everyone is lonely, they both thought, in some willful disregard of physics.
He sat up, the peach-colored sheet falling from his hefty frame, every so-called flaw laid bare. Simultaneously, she did the same, her breasts, heavy and awkward, on display. Too many moments met their end before a noise from the kitchen broke apart the awkwardness, like an unexpected kiss.
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
They looked & knew that everything between them required no complication. No further definition of devotion. They were simply discomfited by their proximity. And they knew their unspoken giddiness was more common than most would believe.
“You have eggs in your fridge?” he asks, as the morning shadows made a mockery of their reticence.
Everyone is lonely.
Monday, May 19, 2014
extended stay?
the land stretches far and wide. that's a given. yet, there is more land everyday. land which hasn't seen daylight in thousands of years. there is a reason for that. reason being that, for all the land meeting the sun anew, there are oceans gaining similar levels of elevation. nature is a trade-off, after all.
I hate to feel idealistic, because I am poor. ideals only work for those who can afford them. I am not a liberal, but I am not a fucking idiot either. I see the signs, even through the toxic haze of poverty, depression, alcohol-abuse and dysfunction, to realize that shit needs to change. sooner rather than later.
some of us have children, some do not. yet, we all have families, whether we are close to them or not. and some of us have fucking pets we care about.
the ship is going down, folks. let's fix it, down to its frame.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
10 & 2
knuckles on my left hand are cracked & bloody, like a tainted alien shore. a jagged map that I'm finding has less to do with the season, and more to do with lack of cohesion. a concept not so much foreign, but mainly abandoned. eloquence is a bitch-goddess, to say the very least. relegate such trappings of specificity to the fucking hounds.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
albuquerque
I am the living personification of poor planning. or little to none, as my slippers would attest as they entered the liquor store to attain cigarettes.
tears were shed, as per the notes below.
So,
tears were shed, as per the notes below.
So,
I was sitting in the canvas swivel throne in the yard of Lord Shiny Top, staring upwards into a nighttime firmament just this side of visible breath. and an interloping realization manifested like some specter of fucking superfluous revelation: this moment is the most peace that I've felt since I could remember.
tragic peace....
it's not simply a question of what happened, but also when. as in, the chronology of tribulations is solid, yet the details are opaque. they fucking flange and ricochet back and forth inside my skull like a weeping child in the center of an empty gymnasium. the most rudimentary definition of lost. flailing, in point of fact.a tiny maroon wisp of cloud dissipating before your eyes. adding gravity to the term 'eventuality'.
Monday, January 14, 2013
our consensual firmament
my hands always feel the softest when I'm holding my little girl. not like the parched, coarse, reptilian things they are the rest of the week. when I'm wringing them bloody in frustration. it all goes away when they are brushing her cheek.
we can see the stars now, if you happen to be looking. the singular, undeniable fact that we all share; looming luminously above every human variable. our consensual firmament.
the steam from the factory southwest of where I stand, billowing up from the horizon, illuminated by city lights and made somewhat arcane through silhouette of dead winter trees. "it's like watching a god being born", I say to myself, as if to assuage the guilt. my hands, cold and brittle like frozen parchment, lighting an unnecessary cigarette. it must be Monday.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
oubliette blues [1.13.2013]
like burying my face in a bear-rug soaked with a luxurious combination of tallow & alcohol, breathing in the ruin. the ghastliness & the weariness. the jagged fumes of it all, brutalizing me from the sinuses down. the brazen uselessness of it all, suffocating all things like a whiteout of acid-snow.
one day, when the sun is reaching the end of its tyrannical sovereignty, blinding all in its death-throes, we'll know the fucking name of our insignificance.
by the way, Apophis, fuck you & your lack of commitment.
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