Mist-sweat mixture, after midnight. There are too many people in the world, but none to be found now.
Solo sprinter, passed by solitary drivers, runs roads and routes; owns them well past rush hour. Stops to breathe and view a cross-highway consumer center.
There is a beauty, a perfection, in the neon-luminescence blurred by fog and undisturbed by the crush and inconsideration of buyers and spenders. The allure of jewel-glowing signs and logos; unmet, unfulfilled purposes.
Traveler, crouched on curb, distant, stares as kingdom offers goods and glow to absent citizens.
Rested, runner hopes God will take everyone back with the late-night, streetlight-yellow mists, so that it will always be like this.
This is the West Goshen Plaza, empty, under a fine, light rain.
May 27th
Shower curtain sadness. She is here, once-lover, former lover. She has come a long way, is tired, needs to bathe. Her hair is long again. It is my idea to stay with her in the bathroom as she cleans, so we can converse. We have not talked much. It is awkward and broken, but the soap and shampoo and steam and the thought of her skin, dripping and seductive, resurrects memories of the months with her that were not patchworked or cracked.
Shoes and clothes on carpet and tile. I want to tear the plastic veil between us--
But now we are walking. Night. Steps towards parked cars outlined by the annoying, hope-killing brightness of a neighbor's floodlight. She would rather shower with her new-lover, her second love.
Replaced; abandoned. And that is that.
This is a dream of my former girlfriend, reigniting thought-defeated desires.
Shoes and clothes on carpet and tile. I want to tear the plastic veil between us--
But now we are walking. Night. Steps towards parked cars outlined by the annoying, hope-killing brightness of a neighbor's floodlight. She would rather shower with her new-lover, her second love.
Replaced; abandoned. And that is that.
This is a dream of my former girlfriend, reigniting thought-defeated desires.
May 26th
Plague-mouth. Tooth-trapped plaque. I have the leper's kiss, tainted tongue twirling like decomposed snake.
But sunlight shines through the holes in my cheeks-- a remedy.
Choking cauterization; throat-burn and renewal. Amelioration.
This is finally buying and using mouthwash after weeks without it.
But sunlight shines through the holes in my cheeks-- a remedy.
Choking cauterization; throat-burn and renewal. Amelioration.
This is finally buying and using mouthwash after weeks without it.
May 25th
Secretion-slick skin, stretched and contoured over muscle and bone. Gel-stroked armpits; anointed limb-roots. Salve rubbed into jawbone before razor-masochism. Tooth-gleaner and glinting gums. Saturated scalp scratched and ravaged. Embalmed; age-in-lines.
The pain of hygiene.
Sweat. Deodorant. Shampoo. Shaving cream. Toothpaste. Laundry detergent; dryer sheets.
This is the construction of the self through scent.
The pain of hygiene.
Sweat. Deodorant. Shampoo. Shaving cream. Toothpaste. Laundry detergent; dryer sheets.
This is the construction of the self through scent.
May 24th
Peel-prisoner, beneath rack and bars. Drowns. Chokes in drippings of elixirs and overflowed ambrosia. Wallows. Swallows in hope of healing, but, disemboweled and sliced, gurgles and bleeds everything out.
Soaked rot. Bloated yellow.
This is a lemon wedge stuck under the grates of a beverage machine.
Soaked rot. Bloated yellow.
This is a lemon wedge stuck under the grates of a beverage machine.
May 21st
Black brigand-before-banner, dark peasant-flier perched against likeness of white-capped king. Flies. Unsheathes.
Claws clamped against corporate architecture. Proud, determined blemish.
This is the crow's freedom, defiance.
Claws clamped against corporate architecture. Proud, determined blemish.
This is the crow's freedom, defiance.
May 20th
Septuagenarians, sipping seven and seven. Senile speakers, to server, regarding half a burger and some salad:
"We hate to waste. We've been through too much over the years. We hate to waste."
Above, static and splintered satellite feed; ceiling-speakers channel emergency broadcaster. Night-abducted children. Shadowed police search. Unease and attentive silence served with appetizers and entrees across the restaurant.
The recurring darkness of each generation.
This is a conversation with a pair of senior citizens while a missing-child announcement plays on the radio.
"We hate to waste. We've been through too much over the years. We hate to waste."
Above, static and splintered satellite feed; ceiling-speakers channel emergency broadcaster. Night-abducted children. Shadowed police search. Unease and attentive silence served with appetizers and entrees across the restaurant.
The recurring darkness of each generation.
This is a conversation with a pair of senior citizens while a missing-child announcement plays on the radio.
May 15th
Diner-darkness and drunkenness, three past midnight. Pastry-tapestry painted perfectly with oil and fat, soaking into cinnamon canvas. Schematics of man on bun; modern Michelangelo.
This is spreading butter on a cinnamon roll.
This is spreading butter on a cinnamon roll.
May 14th
The care of giants' hands. Frantic thumbnail-infant, blind and deaf, waiting for ears and eyes to peel back, open. Fur and burrowing.
It does not know the immensity and gentleness of its hospitaliers.
This is my sister raising an orphaned mouse, found in a parking lot.
It does not know the immensity and gentleness of its hospitaliers.
This is my sister raising an orphaned mouse, found in a parking lot.
May 13th
Greeting through pale-pink martinis; icebreakers, on the rocks. Brown eyes, fondling and possessive.
This is a chance meeting between myself and my former-girlfriend's mother, at work.
Talk of choosing words over notes, silence over sound. Approval through disdain and judgment. Intrigued, attracted, matriarch wishes my hair and smile were still her daughter's.
"There are alot of crazies in the world, but I trust you."
This is the most I've ever spoken with her.
Black button-up pressed into blue blouse. Tight, young pectorals hard against seductive-soft, experienced breasts. Fingertips through lip-scruff. Embrace-- awkward, erotic.
This is the strange intimacy of the encounter's parting hug.
This is a chance meeting between myself and my former-girlfriend's mother, at work.
Talk of choosing words over notes, silence over sound. Approval through disdain and judgment. Intrigued, attracted, matriarch wishes my hair and smile were still her daughter's.
"There are alot of crazies in the world, but I trust you."
This is the most I've ever spoken with her.
Black button-up pressed into blue blouse. Tight, young pectorals hard against seductive-soft, experienced breasts. Fingertips through lip-scruff. Embrace-- awkward, erotic.
This is the strange intimacy of the encounter's parting hug.
May 12th
Sheets as vestments of sloth; prolonged dreams and drool.
This is sleeping too much, too late.
A challenge of gluttony. Competitors arranged. Ten pledged dollars apiece for the cause. Five more as a tip for the three beautiful whores behind the counter at the down-the-road pizza shop. Starving anticipation. Cheese and grease, bread and beef. Soda-elixirs and the therapy of belching. The satisfactory bloating of excessive nourishment.
This is eating half a pizza and an entire cheesesteak for pride and for hunger.
Entering my room:
"You must gather your party before venturing forth."
This is Baldur's Gate, too much, too late.
This is sleeping too much, too late.
A challenge of gluttony. Competitors arranged. Ten pledged dollars apiece for the cause. Five more as a tip for the three beautiful whores behind the counter at the down-the-road pizza shop. Starving anticipation. Cheese and grease, bread and beef. Soda-elixirs and the therapy of belching. The satisfactory bloating of excessive nourishment.
This is eating half a pizza and an entire cheesesteak for pride and for hunger.
Entering my room:
"You must gather your party before venturing forth."
This is Baldur's Gate, too much, too late.
May 11th
Unambitious flirtations in the afternoon until coworkers walk off, concur in the distance, and return to state:
"Raise your standards. You can have anyone you want. Initiate."
Ignored and shrugged off, but later, pursuit instead of flight.
This is the suspension of cynicism.
"Raise your standards. You can have anyone you want. Initiate."
Ignored and shrugged off, but later, pursuit instead of flight.
This is the suspension of cynicism.
May 10th
Woken, shirtless, by tardy churchgoer. Rushed, flushed. She helps me find my clothes, pulls me from the glint of sun-dried shotglasses. Hands me my glasses. Tells me I kissed her, flashed her, punched her. Split her lip. Sight still split, two tongues seen, but neither believed. Hilarity. Weaving home through laughs and lanes and chuckles.
Sheets, then sent apologies. Sleep. Late, late sleep. Waking, stumbling into black outfits for mourning and for work. Leaving. Attractive neighbor-woman asks me to move out of the way as she pulls into a parking spot, car as silver as mine. Convinced our apartment building isn't for the pretty girls, only the retards, the foreigners, and the malformed. Conversation. Departure.
It's all too funny.
This is being hungover enough to get drunk off of shots of sun.
Sheets, then sent apologies. Sleep. Late, late sleep. Waking, stumbling into black outfits for mourning and for work. Leaving. Attractive neighbor-woman asks me to move out of the way as she pulls into a parking spot, car as silver as mine. Convinced our apartment building isn't for the pretty girls, only the retards, the foreigners, and the malformed. Conversation. Departure.
It's all too funny.
This is being hungover enough to get drunk off of shots of sun.
May 9th
The offered return of a stuffed-steward. Moose. Former bed-friend. Former girlfriend sends a midnight text, requesting directions:
"Please let me know how i may do this."
To temptation, my response is nothing; is to seek out the oblivion of coconut rum and tequila.
This is forsaking one form of self-destruction for another.
"Please let me know how i may do this."
To temptation, my response is nothing; is to seek out the oblivion of coconut rum and tequila.
This is forsaking one form of self-destruction for another.
May 8th
I leave the fan off tonight, motor-wind absent. Worked beak-words outside, beyond blinds, beneath the moon-patrol between dusk and dawn. Devil's hour; the quiet, decadent, dangerous time of night when the restless lay and think. Warbles and calls. I wish to be them. The nightingales who nest in the dark vitality of spring evenings. I want to be the crow greeting hung-over, early-waking men on the verge of panic-ruin and collapse, staring from windowside branches during the building-blocked sunrise. Seven o'clock eclipse.
This is the chirping of birds at three in the morning.
This is the chirping of birds at three in the morning.
May 7th
Salad and wine at a pizza den. Unusual. Slipping down plastic chair-stool in polyester shorts; constant readjustment, calm, not agitated. The dry heat of the kitchen against the after-precipitation perspiration of spring-outside. Crushed cars towed along the road. The propaganda of a television set's six o'clock news chilled by the fallacy-free purpose of the soda machine it rests upon. Diet Pepsi.
This is waiting for cheesesteaks at a down-the-street pizzeria.
Waitress, waiting. Forgets to ask an old man what kind of sauce he'd like on his pasta. Hoping this mistake means more flaws, and honesty. Observing, waiting for her to turn to see her face. Knee-length jean skirt, ankle-high black socks. Absence of makeup; no presence of fashion with her hair pulled back in pony-tail. Logoed shirt fitting but form-hiding. Nonetheless, pretty, potentially beautiful. Pure. Practical. Her hiddenness turns me on.
This is the allure of plainness, the attractiveness of reservation.
This is waiting for cheesesteaks at a down-the-street pizzeria.
Waitress, waiting. Forgets to ask an old man what kind of sauce he'd like on his pasta. Hoping this mistake means more flaws, and honesty. Observing, waiting for her to turn to see her face. Knee-length jean skirt, ankle-high black socks. Absence of makeup; no presence of fashion with her hair pulled back in pony-tail. Logoed shirt fitting but form-hiding. Nonetheless, pretty, potentially beautiful. Pure. Practical. Her hiddenness turns me on.
This is the allure of plainness, the attractiveness of reservation.
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