9:30:08

9:30:08- Supposed to be dinnertime. The autumn months have voices that shake like the tires of a Lexus. They like me. I lie to me. On this couch I can write for hours, the cushion has a dictionary sewn into it's threads, the armrests and ottoman contain anecdote and thesaurus.

How can I like someone I don't want to know I'm vulnerable, someone that might even die in breath? the Hearts of Palms. the abandonment of Love. The Stages of Being Lonely astonish me.

9:30:08-11:04pm. Smoking the last bit of a slow pull Marlboro, watching a bald bitter man in a yellow plastic slacked rain blazer drink Coca-Cola from a bottle, slouched back behind a pillow of steel. My observations bleed through the four layers of clothes I wrestle with on this night of New Years thinking of things so sequentially not of this September. Notices & Accusations. Good Things come in two's while bad things come all the time.

The music so loud I shrug off the stares from silent passerby passengers which neatly represent the Hemispheres of the world, a wallet sized postcard I'm still sending to you. Opalescent Phosphorous. Heavy-hitting sarcasm of the 3rd-Reich, all memoirs and serenades. The driver of the 2nd car wasn't named in the paper, but we can assume he doesn't sleep well e(I)ther.

These candles humor the shadows of skin, while eleven o' clock has it's cannibals, has it's mediocre friendships, the disappearing woman standing in the nape of the hallway in the solid bold colored yellow dress. Her name is carved on the words of something a stranger said to her in passing. Moves me unusually towards colors I've liked before.

Please don't make me cry, there is no one left to know. Better to meet on rooftops cleaning gutters pre-doorbell ringing than twin-boothed fancy dinner date. White flagged warnings of the optimal surrender exploding with the fragments of chivalrous courtesy and polite colognes we wear to cover up the scents of our stale actualities. The rough jagged jaw of the human race decayed.

They recognize me by the blue isosceles smile coursing its way across my face, fourteen minutes of track playing over and again on a rooftop. I think of migraine headaches, of ice packs and Ralpax, of pillow cases and blue gatorade. Dearest ******** where hath thou gone? At this point it. is. hilarious. spelling bees and wife beaters. In asking about sour tear jerkers, stale cigarette smoke, and a hot tub outside in a backyard probably around the same time as this(impressed) because the following I have has earned me enough credit to travel first class in a Sprite vessel with hair under my arms, pennies in my pocket. Hurt much? the question mark is symbolic of endowed emptiness not sexuality, trampled under Alaska feasting at discipline on the freeway, I'm full up of words, like a dictionary junkie again I am, so curse me with your black magic, woman I'm so good at what I'm not doing to you anymore. Hot in herr, doktor. I imagine the two of us-stranger & I standing up and dancing through the aisles of the train like an expedited iPod commercial that breeds travel efficiency and feeling good through aesthetic musical preference all at the same time. Just can't stop talking about Love.

Transitions on the Monopoly Board. We travel over stop lights, lost dry cleaning, parked cars, cannibalism, and pharmaceutical riots. The empty shifts keep smiling, but the water hasn't followed our faces from out of our socks. There isn't anything I don't do, nothing I won't do, listen, move, slur verses like it was high school D & D and not pockets of gold fetid furnaces soft to crowns of Midas lips, but how I like those, more listening style of the anatomy expert, my advertisements come with $30 covers, not under but over used the truth is I fail to yield at esoteric speech, my sarcasm precedes me like two disaster victims in the heavy shawls feasting on the tallow of white lies and horse tranquilizers. Lying is as kitsch as hand grenades and plastic, I'd laugh out loud but your bologna sandwich has already begun decomposing the things I liked most about you, and there's just nothing funny left to speak of. Birds and Tucsons. You get me yet. Genuflect in my general direction while I buy you a cup of coffee for my stone age chivalry. Hooded red devils speaking French in the category of goodness so basic that if I were a word on a piece of yellow dress i might unwind with a quiet film or a quiet dance. Think foxtrot or waltz......but who's counting.