Experiments

I took a fresh breath of bathwater before I dry a martini
to lose at yet another game of Omaha hold 'em down before
they run away too because the world is too dangerous for
those girls who bleach their upper lips and cross their legs
at the ankle. So I'll just watch the window that holds the world
while I move forward and everything just goes by, hand in hand
with all the military men and women who protected things I
never wanted in the first place because it makes life so much more
complicated than it has to be, we could all be free of these
ties that bind and limit our lives but we stay sill as windows.

Stranger On a Train Station

On the start of a brand new year,
we parted ways while old men had warm greetings.
I can't remember the taste of your lips
or the warmth of your tongue.
What I do remember is the way his shoes looked against day old snow
how their prints still held
the pure clay far beneath the snirt covered path,
how when his knees bent
and cracked against a warm wind,
how his face seemed as deep and understanding
of places that I've never seen.
He was the experiences of my dreams
in a stranger who didn't even notice me.

Here

There are selfish things inside of me when your arms lay on top of me.
I want you for myself, for things to eternally grow and expand.
I want so much of this that my greed overcomes my senses and lets me escape everything else.
That escape is so different and vivid that my breath becomes scarce and my heart ceases it's incessant beating to just a rare thump-thum.

This is the world for me,
with tiled ceilings and overpriced antiques,
this is the world for me.
I can't wait for these metal highways to bring it all together.

Five Acts

There's an open bottle on the counter with his eyes open, startled yet prophetic. Pleasantries accompanied by the daily tirades start us off before we realize how far we've come. Before these moments of sipping hot elixirs on an oddly warm September day, the feeling of mutual hatred that was real, not just the imitation we do to amuse our boredom. He might be the one person who understands how this air is suffocating to breathe in, to live in, to exist in. He knows how much it hurts to rise day in and day out.

I think back to those adolescent nights of discovering short stories by an ancient Russian and I have to pose so many questions to myself but the main one stands, I know the answer.
It's these days. They keep coming even when I refuse. I shake my head, cross my arms and hold my ground. A refusal partially of spite but also of logic, experience and the day to day that I live in.

I am worn through with fibers close to their final grasp at coherence but instead of real help, let's sit in these stolen chairs and discuss our mutual gripes. It will do for now.

I try to catch every sentence, every word you and I say, and quickly lock all
these sentences and words away in my literary storehouse because they might come
in handy.

The Seagull by Anton Chekhov

A Story & a Voice

Let me tell you a story, it's not mine to tell but hopefully they won't mind. One day, they were walking along, gray concrete and gray skies with nothing to separate the two. His hand was warm and hers was too, but covered by fingers not their own with tight grasps on opposite wrists. She whispered secrets through the sewer grates while he watched the gray turn to white then back again. She was lost in tunnels while he couldn't even see what his downfall would be before they both tripped head over heels.

Maybe I need to start documenting through images again because these thoughts are all incomplete and unfinished. I need something concrete, gray skies can only hold my gaze for so long. Let me show you the delicate patterns of the world that make living so difficult.