2 train apology

I swear this is like meeting up with an old friend. So much time has passed between the two of us and you begin to feel the wetness between your fingers. Your heart really starts taking off and you're wondering what she'll look like and how she'll wear her hair. Now what am I talking about? I'm talking about words and how this feels like an orgasm pulsating across the page.
In the midst of "living" you really begin to lose yourself and the letters on this page begin to stop making sense. And that's okay with me.
It doesn't have to make sense and it doesn't always have to be organized and it doesn't always have to have a lead that bleeds. I'm realizing now that there is room for this in my life.
How would I have forgotten about you?
Now I'm in pain.
I've been cheating on myself for months now. Come back to your roots, says the screaming in my head. I brought you into this world - and every time I would come back to you I feel sheer abandonment. This is why I never grow.
It's the same story told one hundred times over.
Just this time forgive me - embrace me - tell me it's okay to cry.

the story is all over you

9:30 AM and i believe i will go crazy. will the end of the day ever come?i peaked the sun through the blinds just a tiny bit. the coffee's temperature has dropped, and grounds float to the top. just like that, i am at a brass realization. did you know you could release again? it didn't feel like much of a release. it feels like being trapped, choking over a watery grave. and now you wake up with crusty ducts and eyes, that if you look close enough, have tiny red cracks. get close and you'll see it all.
i was never very good at a well-thought out plan. it never happens until it really does happen. i was never good at consistency between my "i's" and my "you's" but isn't all the same anyway?
did you ever love someone so much, so hard, that it makes you never want to love again? you rather get trampled and beaten and never feel again, because let's face it, you'll be back underneath heels before you know it.
i'm not a very good writer. or a very good speaker. or a very good friend. or girlfriend. or daughter. or sister. or guitar player.
i took lessons for two and a half years. listen to me play. it sounds like i just picked the guitar up. i have three guitars and a ukulele, and how i wish i could play them. make a song on their lonely strings. they're so beautiful. my spanish classical guitar never lost its scent. its strings are worn though, and when i look at those worn strings, i feel a little better about myself. i feel a little better about myself when my shoes are dirty in and when my clothes look alive. looks like i've been somewhere.
you know i never really thought i was a very good writer. i can only spill honesty. all i ever thought i had was honesty and raw letters that could fill up a page and i can call that truth. its tangible. and now i don't even have that. i'm not a liar, nor a deceiver. nor am i a troubadour. then what are i?
a crow with a broken wing? is it supposed to sound coarse? is it supposed to have metaphors? is it supposed to hit you in the face with something hard, like how love hits you. and you know i never thought that was true, until it actually happened to me.
the exact moment of love puncturing your artery, because that what it does. it jolts you. you feel something burst with rushed blood. that's how it felt. all your crispy realizations just come crashing into place. the stars align and the moon is a light. and the insides of your ears buzz. that buzz you hear when everything gets a too little quiet. over a lemon world you can hear the moon shining. you can feel both her eyes piercing back into yours and she's not only looking at them, but through them. into me. would you really rush out of there?

"I want you."

"I want you," she wrote in a thick red felt-tip marker.
"Yo quiero tu," she wrote with the same red felt-tip marker on a separate sheet of paper because that's the tongue she was born into. The truth is, she doesn't speak it well and she's ashamed of it.
"Je te veux," she wrote in the same manner, "just in case," she whispered.
And then there was me, brown watered-down eyes peering mercifully onto 3 letters, 3 letters filled with red ink that graciously made 37 incisions into my chest. 3 shifts of the eyes. One meaning in three different languages, "just so it gets through to you," she whispered again, this time with her lips delved into my ear.
But it never ends the way it starts. And it shouldn't. But I wish I didn't get to the bottom so fast. And I wish I didn't realize this was all a dream at, "I want you."

mastodons came runnin'

she said, "open your eyes."
she crawled on rooftops beneath a night sky that was foreign to her.
only sprinkles of stars.
she's used to a glow.
spine stretched with her head palmed in her hands.
"don't you ever just lay here?"
well why don't you just let me stay here?

caught between bridges

In the interest of time, I am here, under the bridge. The stampeding trains and trucks up above is distracting. People come here to be themselves. To sit angelically in the center of a patch of grass like polished porcelain. Always indian style. Never approachable. Never liquid.
We sit and stare out, eyes pried, directed towards that city. This city is my home. This is always what I wanted to do with numbers 1-12 clockwise. But it is also between the confines of solidarity and a hard place. Everybody is trying to be somebody. I am trying to be everybody.
Lens' hanging from the napes of necks, snapping spilt splices of time into a single frame. A glimpse to remember. Tripods and lens'. Lovers and daisy's. Hands tied.
What my problem is I store words for later. For later they will be there, snuggled up against neurons, making love to firing synapses. The truth is they can't be locked up for later. I am here - I am now - it is the only way.
I am caught between two bridges and surrounded by mountains of love. And me, well, I am impending doom.
A chill feels flow over my skin strokes and cracks bad jokes.
There is love tied to the ends of dog leashes and there are hands pieced like puzzles. The 10,000 piece kind.
You can take this literally. You can take me lightly, far away to a cloud. To a cloud that isn't just transparent white air.
I am here to have my picture taken by the blink of an eye. And it's odd because it always feels like I've been here before.
Even the indentations of leaves of grass on elbows and the backs of knees feels redundant.

soft and so sweet

Don't hold this against me, I am just breathing.
Daydreaming on rooftops and drowning out the din of yellow bulldozers. I don't face the sun, but I keep my back to it, softly on my neck, slightly opening my spine. Rooftops line up with treetops and I'm half red robin, half blue jay. That would make me a purple robay. But depending on the ratio of blue to red I could be anything from lavender to magenta. I just wanna be free.
I'm a vicious animal, and so are you. And so is she, and so are they. Don't let the soft skin and sweet eyes fool you. I'll charm you with lazy bones and the fleshiest of flesh. I'll let you kiss me down to the very marrow.
See that's what I could do. It's something I'm not afraid of.
They're all afraid to see it, but it's what they've been waiting for their whole life.
It's like at a funeral. A lifeless body that you just can't peel your eyes off of. You feel like it's wrong, but some how you can not look away when death is staring you dead in the face. Would it be contradictory to say a lifeless human? Once you die your turned into a body; a corpse; we don't call you a human anymore. But the truth is, I'd be insulted. To the natives of mahogany caskets and terra-cotta urns - I know humans who are less colorless than you. Barren, insipid, drab.
But that wasn't my point. Then again, what ever is my point? How about the point?
Matchpoint.

naturally,

Naturally, I get into a mood of spontaneity. It's over faster than I could think, but that does not stop me from jumping all around the house with my fingertips on speed and vultures clawing at my neck. Now naturally, of course I am ten different people from upstairs to downstairs and from downstairs to upstairs I am 20 different people. Naturally, these are tendencies that make me talk to and with my hands and smoke invisible cigarettes and reiterate words really loud because I am the only soul dwindling. The music is roaring and I articulate over it. And it's natural that I cross my legs and sit like a European man who fancies tweed jackets and pushing his hair out of his eyes. I am just reexamining my roots.
Naturally, this doesn't last very long. I am slow and sluggish again. I am slumped way back into my leather chair with my fingers dragging across the keyboard like deadweight. Plummet onto L and over to V skipping O and never placing an E because you can't hear it anyway.