Thursday, December 22, 2011

Early morning lessons

A squatter's life goes until 5 in the morning. It doesn't sleep much, it listens for rats and mice in the dark. The life tries to stay as far away from knowledge as possible.

When you're somewhere between state lines and you have delusions of grandeur, I hope you'll think of the sky, because it sees you as much as you see it.

The night sometimes wants a bit of space, so it pushes everything away with gentle breezes. And onto the next place you should go. Don't mistake its politeness.

In between pieces of gravel there are pieces of smaller gravel, and those pieces disjuncture to make gaps that whisper fire's crackle in light and dark. You can hear them if you want, but they only sound when made to; they're phantasmal.

When your lover one day takes her brittle arms and wraps them onto the railing of a train, kicking one leg up, and chanting incantations, you should gather distance. The sight is perfection.

If your pupils don't dawdle long I fear I'll assume the worst. They should constrict and elaborate something of your solitude.

When the gravel under the train speaks you'll feel more than see your nightly lover parting, but that feeling will be numb, and especially frozen at 5 am in the squatter's palace. 

Sunday, December 18, 2011

Romantics and their deaths (Part 1)

How would you like to die?

Dinesh sits with his eyes closed. With a deep exhale he begins.
"Crossing the street I reach inside of my pockets, into the corners and around the wallet, the pencil, the notepad, in search of my lighter. My lighter is lodged between the wallet and the pad. My footsteps crunch through the snow and all I can envision is the satisfaction of the deep clouds of toxin smoke. My pack of cigarettes are wedged between my chin and collar bone and the pressure feels good.There is a car coming, a bit too far to acknowledge. I pause for a second adjusting the cigarettes to relieve the pain beginning under the corners of one the box's sides. As the box falls into the perfect spot my middle finger realizes it has met the lighter, and I take the step into the street. "

"Boom dead. I'm dead now. The driver realizes what he or she has done (it doesn't matter) and cries, and my blood drips done until it soaks the lighter and mixes with the fluid inside. "


The wallpaper of the room stops the diffusion of smoke into the exterior that the romantics do not recognize. Four chairs sit circling a table used only to carry the ash tray that sits atop . A candy cane has been dispensed to the four romantics as they recall and recount and re-imagine their lives with respect to a question.

"Well, hmm. I'm not sure. Maybe, maybe... Wait, I've got it, why don't you stand up for a second? Let me just illustrate it." Steven stands and haltingly waves his arms for the three to arise. "Here! You stand here...and Ellen, you stand directly behind Nora, but be nonchalant. Don't think about Nora; she doesn't exist, okay? Pulling arms and pushing backs, he arranges the three into solidly relaxed positions with Nora's head tilted slightly upward, and Dinesh with his pinky tapping his side.

"Yes, I'd stand directly in front of you\, he says pointing to Dinesh."

"Why? I don't understand. Is this how you'd like to die? Is this it? Waiting in some line?"

"Yes, yes it is. We're in the checkout line, at Macy's and not just Macy's, but Macy's in New York City. I've never been to that one. At the head of the line, just as someone, someone who doesn't matter and might be walking away, is leaving the line, I begin to make look all around. My heart is exploding, the register-lady asks me to step up to the counter. I do. I do, but I can feel my heart just thumping away. Thumpthumpthump, thumpthump...thump. My eye'll bulge and fix on her eyes, and she'll think I'm mad and glance at Dinesh for help. His fingers will stop thumping, my breath will release, Nora, beginning to notice, will take a step forward in the woman's defense, and Dinesh will hear Nora's step and look back, causing Nora to look back, and everyone will be looking at everyone else as I falter and die. I'll die with and without everyone! My head will lay where so many feet have, and my pinky will touch my side. Dinesh will notice while they are screaming and calling 911. The store will stop and then after the numbers are punched, everyone will relax, and everyone will pay for their picks, because some are on sale. "

Nora goes to the window to lift it, making a gap between it and the sill. She reflects on the communication, the distance, the unity. She thinks "the window is unified, the parts are not." A gust torrents through, hitting the four and prompting them to retake their seats. Each stands before their respective chair and after they have all arrived they sit in unison. They make eye contact with one other and shift it around, hoping to ensure they are all together. 

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Achinprop

Hello there,

I'm looking for something that will prop my chin up when I walk.

I've tried hair weights

lined up on the back of my head,

they just hurt my neck.

I drew the American flag on the tips of my shoes,

I just became nationalistic.

I tried really hard to look forward,

but I can only look down.

I need something...

What'll it be?

A helmet that keeps my head in place? Something big? Something elaborate?

Please help me prop my chin up,

I can't go on like this.



Thursday, December 1, 2011

Cleavage


Somewhere in the sweet supple breasts of Lisa I can see ghettos of microbes huddling together, smoking crack pipes, calling out for some god to take those pale mountains in palm and squeeze them together. In her ghetto are my eyes, watching her dinge and grime barely covered by some grey blouse from K-Mart. Her arm crosses her torso and her neck stretches out while her head cranes into her shoulder.  In that moment I believe she has come from that ghetto on her chest—she has somehow ascended it, but barely, growing out of insignificance and into its representative. Giant microbial being—I deem her, and she smiles one of those smiles that lets you know shes uncomfortable and waiting for something to happen. Meanwhile, in the ghettos, a young microbe lies in Main Street and dies as she scratches her cleavage.