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Major In Eros
We could spend the day in bed. Call in bloated. Phone in lost. Letís make an exception to dial digits that yield nothing but pizza. Hold the pepperoni. Forget to pay heed to the mugginess & salt in the air. Don't care what the forecast reads, for if it pours weíll hold court inside. The fort is every bit as good this side of the window. Weíve a pack of Sour Patch Kids & enough mix for pancakes. We're singing. That's the way we get by. Between the sheets & the shade, oh, to me we'll have a sunny day.
You are like a vast, weathered canyon. Exhilarating to stand at the edge of. But no matter how bold one is, going further than the guardrail is unthinkable. Then again, you are also like a key. I lose you everywhere I go. You are in my hand one minute and on the table the next. Your subsequent whereabouts shortly thereafter are anyoneís guess. Sunglasses you rather resemble to boot. Adorning my face, complimenting my very existence, only to be misplaced, but still close at handÖattached to my personÖah, there! Atop my head and never residing at an unbearably long distance.
Those pills? You don't need to take. Medicating perfection? Now that's a mistake. I know that you're spent, just let me sing you to sleep. It's your finger & how I'm running circles around it. It's your grace & how it keeps me grounded. Rest assured. Dose. I'll tuck you in, plant my lips where your necklace is closed. While you were sleeping, I figured out everything. I was constructed for you, and you were molded for me. I feel your name coursing through my veins. You shine so bright itís insane. Honey, you downright put the sun to shame.
Not I. I was born in a city, yet belong in a field. Sometimes the only way to get through a day is to laugh. Because you can. You remember that few people have the actual ability to hurt you. Itís a show. A masquerade. An intimidation exhibition. A lesson in power tripping. I prefer enlightenments to run-of-the-mill highs. However, there is no greater high save that of jumping seven feet on a horse. Prime high. And some people like trip wires & fishing line. So that they can better their chances at feeling better about themselves through injuring others.
She very literally is a tree hugger. And I love it. My mother would gather the three of us around the bases of large trees on our walks when we were younger. ďLetís see if we can all join hands and fit around the trunk!Ē We would earnestly pick a spot, take up the hand of the other, and eagerly wait as the next person linked up and stretched out. We made it around every tree we hugged. She imparted to me a healthy respect for the earth. Our environment. I want just enough children to fit around a tree.
No, not really. But thank you for your time.
That's just like him, to wander off in the Evergreen Park, slowly searching for any sign of the ones he used to love. Off and altogether. Barreling ahead, paying no heed to the trunks of the trees. Getting caught on branches and whapped in the face by the bolder bits of leaf. Good day to you sir, for I dare not join the foray. I have not brought my pen today. Every little tree grows up to be a paper stack here, and the ink timelessly proves mightier than the sword.
Where to? Our footprints washed away from the docks of downtown. It's been getting progressively later for seemingly days. And I feel myself deserving of a little time off. We can kick it, hang for hours, mouth off about the worldÖ. Iíve seen more spine in jellyfish, though the whales out here in the meadow are screaming while their voices are drowning. We missed the boat, though we werenít yet born before it left port. Together weíre after pirating forty thousand sewn hearts. And you let me know regarding whatís happening below. Now we donít speak of that, do we?
Well your faith held strong but still, you needed that last bit of proof. Up a ladder & over ten blocks, you were able to catch sight of her languidly bathing atop the tin roof. Her imminent beauty & the moonlight, her backdrop, overthrew you. Somehow she managed to tie you & those anchors in your pockets to her freshly upholstered kitchen chair. She broke your throne & she cut your hair. From your lips she drew nothing short of sorry and everything expectedly over the top. Though sadly, no amount of time will help sink this into our skulls.
I am all tuned in. So itís expected that I see all the programs. I save coupons from packets of tea. I've got my giant hit discothŤque album. I empty a bottle & feel a bit free. The kids in the halls running the length of their leash and the pipes in the walls sputtering to be let free, make me yearn for the noise and more company. Long distance calls have ceased to work, but there are those still soliciting the pay phone, and the silence on the other end of the receiver makes me nothing short of lonely.
Story time. Gather Ďround. Hold on tight, for itís a roller coaster ride weíre on so wave goodbye, say goodbye while my cell phone flirts with a signal & we anxiously await some sort of contact to the rest of our worlds (which just so happen to be perpetually conjoined at the hip). My hands & clothing are covered with paint & glory & happiness. What a fitting ensemble to such an event. You at my side are dressed in nothing short of elegant. Your favorite black plastic bag with the silver fittings & silk bow threaded through the top.
Living is easy with your eyes closed. Why is it taking you so long to draw the curtains? The comfort and security & the ease of your years. Hm. A credible culprit. A steadfast explanation. Pardon me for failing to see the living in that at all! Donít you want to experience life? What will you be able to show after ninety some odd years for all the minutes you have collected as experience? You will have spanned across a well maintained, overly safe, utterly redundant existence. Accomplishing nothing short of predictability, punctuality, & artlessness. Does that hit the spot?
There, a blue light resides in my boy friendís room. A deep blue spark in his eyes. I want to see that blue light ignite. I want to be around when it decides to shine. The ship comes in against his window sill. The ship hangs ten tonight. The ship decidedly sails on by, revealing a world underneath in blue. I watch from his bed & itís sailing away. I watch it under covers and it simply canít stay. Too much has taken up residence between the footboard & the floor & theyíd anyhow never fit well with the rug.
All I want is to see you smile. And to stand up for what you believe in. Youíre too easily ruffled. You retreat of late too easily from your strident confidence to your quiet, reserved, insecure nest. Oh, that nest. Muddled with the bare bones of unfinished beasts, ashes of your desperately smoked cigarettes, strained letters, painstakingly painted pictures and a myriad of one line responses to keep us from inquiring further in regards to your feelings.
Oh what whoa never that! Unthinkable to allude to the fact that youíre indeed not as mechanical and preplanned as your responses.
The eyes are truly the windows into a soul. And his? As woeful as pigeons in the roof space. As large & warm as a spanielís. As gooey & melt your insides out as a fresh baked chocolate cake, just removed from the oven. Guess what? Youíve got the very first slice. Lucky you! Completely devoid of calories, but wholly full & fit to burst with the underpinnings of compassion. Not only do these orbitals serve as 2 way mirrors, itís also quite possible to window-shop their depths. What qualities are present? Ardor. Politesse. What shall we have to go?
On Monday, you were rather blue. Upon promptly serenading you, you adopted a rather wispy, washy shade of yellow pallor that appeared to have earned a once over from the washer one too many times for my liking. Boo. Tuesday saw you enviously green. Not full fledged emerald, I got to you sooner than that had time to take root in your sinuses, more so a spring field all afresh in new growth. A quick fix of lunch welcomed you into a rosy, roguish blush that creeped across your entire being and which rather complemented your 1 constant: hair color.
Wednesday enveloped you in all your aspiring silver tones. Why you would wish to resemble the heartless tin kind of man is beyond me, yet there you were, standing on that deceptively similarly stiff leg. Sunshine did you good, the rays palled around with your body, tricking it into earning good color in due time. Warm cappuccino we saw you back up against, with a hint of vanilla bean. By Thursday it was pumpkin orange, you having been under the impression spray tan was the way to go, but a good scrub in a claw-footed tub helped you into peach.
Clowns shuffle nervously. Troubled children abandon chalk games to draw your thighs. That surgeon flooded a vein with his receipts so you could make sense of your symptoms. You dabbed coconut remedies. Avoid specter fractures. Rub it all to forget all you think women need to feel. You live like a mummy, wrapped in your solution of splitting, in prayers, constant drowning, this flooding of unknown medicines, colliding on. You collide with anywhere these days and look... incredible. You are flooding into the on, colliding on and on, but how much do you feel, wrapped up like that, limping on?
For a nickel & a passive slide into the back seat you can buy an 11-minute dream. Too restless to unwind, the rest stop by, dauntingly commandeering the cobblestones at impressive speed. There you can catch a glimpse over an unfurled glass pane of panic stricken features quelled for so long they resemble frowns. You probably should have learned while you had the chance, but now their features blur. What have we found? With no blueprints of our own, we careen around a corner only to stumble upon a neon sign pointing every which way &nowhere at the same time.
It was talk of knee replacement surgeries around the operating table in the room today. Cringing in my scrubs; partly due to the meat locker maintained temperatures of the establishment, partly due to my own woe begotten knees, I wondered how many years max I could play the stay out from under the poised knife game. Marion rehashed the story of her personal hip replacement surgery, and not yet a day over 60! What have I to look forward to by way of bodily malady? Knees appear probable candidates. Oh the joys of owning a corpse to call your own.
A groomed horse always wins. Only wins. If itís what?
. I have concluded today that women are no exception to such a rule. We must be groomed, while men can go to hell for all the rest of the world cares. Five oíclock shadows? Somewhat sexy. Attractive. An allusion to a mysterious disposition underneath the bristly covering. Rumpled clothing? A plus. Havenít showered in twenty-four hours? Acceptable. Sweat, blood, dirt and the musky scent of man in the morning? Gets us going. Permissible. Now be so kind as to run down the list again, with a woman in mind.
When summerís gone,
Where will we be?
I wonít call you tonight and I wonít call you in a week. I fully intend to just be myself by myself. For awhile. For the rest of my time here. For who knows how long, but I do know that it will not be with you. Oh no. Donít text me, donít call me, donít touch me. Partially due to the fact that I donít know what I want. More so because of the fact that I fuck people up. Men. Unintentionally. Unbeknownst. It wasnít my intent, it wasnít my intent. Sweetheart.
I should be feeling something. Should I be covetous? I hate that I donít feel for you, that I canít feel for you, that I want to make a decision to either take you or leave you, but I havenít yet reached one. I conclude that I no longer possess the power to do so when it comes to you. Stop by when youíre awake. Drop by when you merry eyed. Youíre tangible and at the same time? Elusive. If I dwell too far into this, too much so on the matter, Iím going to catch nothing short of hell.
If you deride the taste of liquor, why do you imbibe it all the time? Until you can neither navigate nor stumble your way home & youíre calling me, but the buttons on your phone are still. Youíre out on the lawn, flat on your back, staring at stars that undoubtedly have been extinguished for years & nobody pays heed, save you. Why is it you fear self-expression when itís unconformity you crave? Youíre spending days in between lost & found towns, devoid of advertising for the go-to drug of the hour, while I toss & turn on my sides.
When you love someone enough, you let them go. You donít bar the way of what they perceive to be the bright light ripping through their dusky world. So here I sit, patiently and artfully holding my tongue. Holding my tongue. Holding my tongue.
What do you think of him?
Oh, heís of good character. Seemingly. Though thatís quite the positivity on my part. Always one to cease exacting judgement, though in possession of decent character assessment if I do say so myself, this time I feel I really have him all figured out. And Iím not liking him, honestly.
What we do depends on what we are; but it is necessary to add also that we are, to a certain extent, what we do, and that we are creating ourselves continually. Ö For a conscious being to exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly. Why does it bother you so that Iíve changed? Subtly. While retaining every last shred of who I am while simultaneously shedding last insecurities and final ridiculous tendencies. Chin up, love. Your shoes look different from down here, and mine still look the same.
For awhile, I didnít let my self overly feel. Hurt too much. I think Iím quite sensitive, I have just learned to cover it up. Not think about certain things so much. Express it in other ways. Outlets such as art, writing, dancing, riding. Though I questioned myself over the sink in the mirror,
what is it I hope to gain from this?
If I choose to love, it should be unbarred & not doled out in comparatively small portions (considering how thoroughly I apply my passions to other endeavors). Iím the type to love, lose, live with no restraints.
Far from unlovely, she is built like a sunset property, where southern remedies are brewed and swept into the swarming London swept backyards. With thighs like sunsets gone west, she is a limping mime that frightens me. How many doctors designed those thighs and how many physicians did it take for your mysterious illness to fester? These days, your drizzles of blood wakes this dustman's morning. With asthma and blood, you walk to work and look incredible, look like snow blowing through the door from any street. Factories produce to your legs; they weld bonds, set ankles, peel exfoliating steel.
Never one to consistently act my true to form age, you can tell by the lines in my smile that Iíve been around for something like awhile. So, insecurities are approximately as useful as trying to stick that pin back in the grenade. & Calling someone fat doesnít make you thinner, just like tossing around grenades doesnít solve problems. Do you want to really let go and throw something far from you? Try this. It will greatly benefit you and it wonít harm anyone else in the process. Love and accept what and who you are. Others will follow suit.
ďNever regret anything that once made you smile and never give up on something that you canít go a day without thinking about.Ē You uttered those words to me, a knowing and tired smile wearing at the corners of your bowtie lips. We both know my indecisiveness is keeping me out of the game. You, more so than I. I paused for a whole minute to ponder those lithely spoken syllables. What is it I really want? Nevertheless, I canít shake your words. There they are, residing on the kitchen table, atop my morning literature and aside the vegetable omelet.
I want to live inside your body, melt into your bones. Rough hewn associations, reliable liars of the compulsive label & one too many shots on the telephone have made a mark on my existence to date. I bear it. I tirelessly ceased to listen to a select few, & is that really so wrong of me? Letís just write a song that we can dance to cause they donít want to listen. Or show me how practiced your pied is with the pedal. We can just keep going, 2 orange cream sodas & a skeleton key between us both.
The Tip Jar