Noon Free-Write

Noon Free-Write. 

Go. 

I’m holding on to last night’s poison like it is the holy grail and all the drunks jeering at me from sideways street will melt into steam engine trains. This absurd life can only be approached and defined by absurd sentences. “Flashbulb lightning power pop with an edge for the dramatic,” she describes the sound of her new band, facetious and doom gloom heir. Strings that tie us all together to the same race. We sat next to two loud talk women with their short hair cuts and curt, fast words. They ignored us and we them. Wildly belligerent friends of a transient nature. Could not catch us carving our names or dumb proclamations into the wooden desk, oh holy, holy holy. There where amplified street preachers with picket signs speaking the word of god as if it even matters anymore. (contemplate if my neighbors are nightly raptured, i.e. disappeared into a thin rolling fog over the lakes and streams and rivers of a brown city). If the rapture came. I’m not sure there would be a noticeable difference. 

Anyway, I took a trip as a buffalo roams through mountainous Montana with conservational etiquette, loud gorgeous pickle-back prose, the musical tapping minds, writerly fashionable quotations, hair pulled back, hats without brands or advertisements, the marketing bias of culture clash, shock treatment, crushed ice down the back of a taut tank top with the shoulder blades all cut and diced through the black lace back, a few more piercings and we set off collective metal detectors, pulled out of our faces with powerful enough magnets. Birdsong and the repetitious chirping is all I think of normal conversation. It is an ABAABBC formatting with derivatives obviously. Same sequence. Depends on many times you wish to reiterate the importance of your day to us. 

Looking down at the veins of the earth from a comfortable couch. I don’t feel superior. I am shrunk microscopic in the petri dish microcosm of my life, the wrung out dish sponge, a tall tree fell but surrounding arms of slow-help trees, likely offspring, pushed it up to vertical once again. There were endless pretty eyelashes and a pretense of charisma though we are actually so much more awkward than the bloody mary mirror trick with a girl you have a crush on in middle school, she has doubt but then cries in fear that the ghost would reach out and grab her. I remind her the ghost is friendly and that we are not alone in the universe. She is small and weak minded. With feeble limbs and walks sideways. I was no different. Taller. Our hair equal length resting on the shoulders with an added greasiness. Anyway. the nostalgia sometimes invades my present but my memories are all combined and mixed together like a blood clot or clogged drain pipe. 

my memories are made of wax. the rush of passing time is hot. friction melts my dreams. there are no wisps of scented smoke after such forlorn ideas of youth burn. did I really do that? what a creature, I think. 

we are beautiful together. wishing it were true. 

the way we cut through to truth as the crow flies. hack through the hedge maze of formality with a mobile buzz saw. our arms became fins, our lungs gills, the bottom of the ocean was not deep enough to bury our love, we let it sink as stones tend to, the gravity pulling at us all to begin drooping over time, emotionally and physically, the brand new life lead in a futurist dream that cannot be because of heart reservations, a great big lovely mess of a person, there in drunken spotlight, with red rushing blood cells, dying in the split moonlight, we all die, can it be something to tie us all down and go for gold clear in the hazy morning red light district line bus route camouflage passing traffic cones and a sense of superstition that the ghost we conjured in that mirror so many years ago follows, follows, and follows us to eventually keep watch over our grave site, no body, just granite headstone with an engraved epigraph, a whole chapter, a book and cover molded into honest rock. No one visits. Owls do sometimes because it is quiet and they comfortable around ghosts, however angry. Nothing haunts something that can turn its head all the way around. At least that’s what I heard. The grave yard mumbles something but traffic covers it up. 

That love don’t need flowers to show it’s dead. 

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