It is spring break, after midnight, the last evening at my parent’s house. We sleep in an old bed with glow in the dark stars a vacant and empty, dark blue scratched up paint, the criss cross mountain range of her shape under that horizontal line fabric. Here there is a section with white background and the levels of colors demand of us constant nightly attention, those doors ever slamming, louder with the window propped open, the gross clarity of the sleepless night, where everything crucial is torn apart by wolves, caste aside by doppler effect, misconstrued as rude…
A part of me thought I might lack the music to write real sympathetic. There were waves, sunstroken, incessant and pushing toward the shore, our oars tangled up and we became directionless, academic maybe, those tattoos became art pieces in fancy mansions, the chandelier fell and now our running shoes are used most above all else, the walking and the rain of all rainy days. The delicate feet of a heist turned toward shame and against the beauty of fresh experience. A constant redeeming high with new sights. (She wakes up with a start, a reaction to my light and words, the slamming of doors, or the newborn smell). We all smell it or dream of smelling it. Rose garden with landscape architecture and a knack for civic statues, those modern mantlepiece photographs that die and grow young with us.
Did I knack the appropriate time to write?
Black sandy beaches. Driftwood in the shapes as prisms. A whole devised network of happy campers, leaps for freedom above the suicide railing, our hearts thumping with a wild weight, a drained up reverie reversed and here we are at the source of a wonderful future memory but we fail at it with a ferocity to compete with olympians and a trained ear for noise cancelled mistakes, a fighter attitude against a mundane attitude trait, the devil and the dancer trading whispers with one another each cramping up the muscles of a well fed shoulder. The little legs run with a crazed intent and we are all confused by what everyone is doing. Conversations are random. We are not all windows to our former selves of the last months, a stressed out ball of emotions like greyscale eye balls after whitewashed walls and rusty bank vault doors barely leaning on their mounted frames.
Doors are slammed once more. The line design sleeps in a narrative arc between waking and dreaming. Though the lines are uncomfortably blurred some times. It feels good to lose the active self and loose the demons of the xanax archaic plight, deep under a veil of secrecy and a known drunk-throat desire, with our laughter hidden under our bellies, white or sunbleached, the salty waves casually eroded over time….. It feels good to die a little. It feels good to hear the scamper of a new thought basking there in an iridescent ballroom, reminds us of a time where the girls were too distracted for him to be audibly prevented by an empty theater, the reserved seats were yet filled… someone bought out the stadium seats but had too many pabst during tail gate.