Something different from my recent writes
Ratted grey pavement
Have become our guides
Our feet like treaded rubber
We’re finally on the road
May it rest peacefully
Miles beneath our feet
Traffic zooms by
Life goes on
A small convoy of
Taking their time
Cruising at their own pace
Grey pavement slowly decays
Car sized cobblestone
Dirt and gravel
I think I understand how you feel when you say that you’re only has full as a new moon. I’ve found full moons in my bed and held something similar, close enough for all I care in the dreams that roll through my head. If the sunshine can’t illuminate the dark places inside of me then feeling like I’m full is what I’ll get used to.
A new age comes upon us, a night without falsified images of light. The moon will know only the cold void of space as the sun evaporates into the crevices of my body. I will accept my fate for what it is.
"…We had lost count of the days by now, I suppose that might be the sleep exhaustion but then again, I suppose it might not be. They were blurring by in pointillistic images, in the moment they were blurry, frantic and alive, in hindsight they were clear, defined and static."
- Short excerpt from my future novella “The Summer Series”
I don’t feel shameless in admitting, if given the opportunity, I would devour your flesh in the most tender of ways
Her elegant words come sharply across my ears as the hinges moan, eventually crashing in on themselves.
“Have you been smoking?”
The words come dancing out of my mouth autonomously with a swirl of smoke
My yellow eyes betray me
My shaky legs take me to the kitchen, her eyes like Chernobyl reactors burn through me with a tender gaze. She smirks, revealing that world class smile of hers
“The bottle’s on the bottom shelf”
Everyday for the last who-knows-how-long a core group composing of 5 men met 13, 2, 4, 7 and 10 miles away from their homes in an expansive tin roofed building. It was always the same time and each man would get there just after the other; 6:50 sharp. Slamming the doors on their moth-eaten pick up trucks each would grab his lunch pale and canister of coffee. Upon first opening the door their was a small room decorated with a cedar picnic table, a fridge whose freezer was filled with Vodka, Yoplait yogurt and a jar of half-eaten peanut butter. Two microwaves and a series of lockers from the now defunct Perkins school laid neatly next to the backseat of a Chevy Silverado; on both microwaves the only buttons that worked were 3 and 6. This is where at 9:30, or 10 minutes before, the men would eat breakfast and at noon, or 15 minutes before, they would eat lunch. Taking a right when you enter leads you into the main portion of the expanse. Wide as the eye can see yet packed tightly with half-torn apart forklifts, a myriad of tool-filled benches and other bits of equipment half-torn down or half-rebuilt, I guess it all depends on whether you’re an optimist or not. Among the organized chaos lay a wood stove adjacent to a flight of stairs, a clan of broken stools surrounded it. At 6:50 every morning, this is where they would meet. During the summer a ray of sun might break the dirty window on the other side of the building, lighting up a small grease-stained patch inside, during Autumn the window would evaporate into the wall.
Dan was always the first to get there and the first to get the fire going, no one knew how early he got there and whenever asked he’d always give a politician’s answer. Jesse would show up a nick before the blade got sharp, lighting up one of his British cigars, as always. The giant of the mill, Frank, would come walking through just after, his booming voice echoing with laughter “Aren’t we glad to be here?!?”, his seat was directly next to the stove and tire hub that had become the ashtray. Jumpin’ Jack Joseph could be heard just as soon as Frank’s laugh repeated itself for the last time, hopping on in just as his name would suggest, he’d already be half way to a Friday night. Dave was both the quietest and loudest of the bunch, sneaking in he’d take his place, on even days he’d tell the funniest, most animated of stories, on odds he’d stare blankly into his hands . Everyone got there on the predetermined time, never a minute late but despite this, Dan would always say some smart ass comment that always started with “You fuckers…”
Over the years, the crew slowly dwindled, from 30 to when Dan started now down to just 5. Each worker slowly being picked off by better opportunities, bad weather or set a blaze with the crash of the economy. Now, everyone who worked there had been doing so since their 20’ or teens, they all stayed for some reason or the other. What first started out as fast money for a high school graduate now had become a slow coffin for 5 bitter men in their 50’s, 60’s and 70’s. They all knew this and through years of 6:50 wood stove chatter, 9:30 banter and noon dry-wit laughter had become as close as you can get. There’s a certain bond formed between men whom know they’re gunna die together.
"…You fuckers, I’ve had left-handed hand jobs cum quicker than yous did."
That was the start of the talking and misguided camaraderie at 6:50. As each man took his seat and filled his role, laughs and spilt beers were had over bitterness and the same Friends episode.
Stick your fingers down my throat and make me feel pretty
To pull the cat out of the burning barrel
I still want you, I still have all those mushy, gay feelings you told me I shouldn’t have even when I was supposed to have them. It’s been 5 days and there’s a distance I’ve felt that a stupid number can’t put a finger on and a broken heart dare not consider. My mind’s been racing and you know it has, you said the small things didn’t matter when you didn’t take your double-knotted shoes off when you came over the day we broke up. You said my biggest problem was that I over analyze every situation like when my best friend threw a smile at you, a smile he hasn’t thrown in the 3 years he’s known you and later that night he’d try and do something he hasn’t tried to do in the 3 years he’s known you. You told me to slow down and not think as fast, against your better judgement I haven’t stopped thinking, I haven’t put speed signs on the autobahn that is my brain, I haven’t considered it. In the time I spent writing this I’ve thought about how you were having trouble on the 5th problem of your geometry homework last Tuesday , how my dog having been born in Tennessee has only seen snowy winters and how the fingers of my left hand are 3 millimeters bigger on average than their right handed counter parts but I’m done sitting here, I’m done telling and talking about what’s on my mind, I’ve got to get up and run, I’ve got thoughts to catch up to
I’m the weaker one
If you want call me that
And you will
I’m pathetic and
Lacking a lion because
I tore down a wall that
I built tirelessly out of
And had the pieces
Shipped to you,
Shipped to you
Build you up
Build a fleet
A gate and tower
To make you strong again
I’m the weaker one
I tore down my wall
So you could take my heart