Scared for One an’ Other

Black and smooth like the coral comb from the circus
I saw it through the window on the other side
The moving car, moved alongside the moving walls
While a yellow line rode still in vision of me
Headphones at large whispered to a bobbing beat
When I saw it
The shadows behind me in a glass box
Only gesturing at conversation,
They lost their wind and fell on themselves
The explosion a ghost red, simmering in a graceful yellow
I saw it
Lightning thrown against glass after a faithless rumble
Unlike pieces racing to join another
The glass raced like that into my hair and scalp
‘Till it slid to one side, ’till the cheek hit the seat
‘Till the flecks of color made a world of sense
Man bled, but to us I was one, an other.

Over a Presidente

He seemed too tall, sly with a tilting smile.
He tried too hard, pulling mass-produced slopes with his hair.
He wore too much black as if to take himself too seriously.
He had dull friends with nothing to shine but the light off their skin.
He called himself an asshole but said he’d prove himself wrong.
He boasted alternatives and freedom; too hopeful for his age.
He smiled under pondering fingers and blooming eyes when I quieted him.
He tried to explain himself but my fingers closed and the flappers shut.
He was an asshole meeting a stranger for the first time.

Bygone

Wet sand after the tide left

The shore crawls with life, before ignored

Felt it on the skin, while their hard toes poked

the grit of sand coarse against the teeth,

I said goodbye.

A Wall of Pink Panties

As my feet drew forward, pushed along by the pavement, I saw, like the sunrise, the pale concrete building with the lion’s faces and flourished window sills. It had the strange resemblance of a bank and I pictured marble floors and gleaming wooded counters, inside. I pictured it bustling with busy-eyed clerks, chandeliers, and velvet ropes. But there was an importance that transcended the white snarling beasts and the overdressed bankers I had imagined at the time.

In this building, was a man at a desk pushing a lease towards me. The lease for my very first apartment. I felt grown, old even, but as I imagined a place of my own; to love, to furnish, to breathe in…my own air! I felt immature, to say the least.

I’ve only spoken with the landlord once, and I had never seen him. His voice suggested someone in his late twenties or early thirties (later, his appearance would confirm my hypothesis). He seemed friendly enough.

The phone conversation started something like, “Hi Phillip, this is Heather from 2R. I’m the one rooming with Max and Zack.”

His name was Phillip Fullop, a name that is hard to take seriously and I wondered if he’d be a pothead with fat sweatshirts and striped PJ pants.

“Oh yea, hey Heather. How can I help you?”

“Max has already sent you my mother’s credit check information, but I was wondering if you could just use mine.”

That night I sent him an email with my information, and then another one asking him to email me to confirm that he received it. Still, I didn’t trust my own precautions and decided to call him again in the morning.

“Yes, yes, Heather, I got it,” he said when I called him the next day, “Don’t worry about it.”

I was a bit paranoid. Earlier in the process I had driven Max crazy with my rantings about adequate closet space and my fear of roaches.

“You’ll kill them, right? I’ll sit on a counter all day, if I see any roaches.”

When I actually entered the building, I was rudely disappointed. The tile floors were a dirty yellow, like pee stains on whitewash. There were fuzzy windows, hardly any decor–in fact, there were none at all. Not a single plant or picture, not even benches to sit on. The lobby looked like an abandoned one, and I believed it was until I saw a man exit an elevator, stopping only to pace under a broken chandelier while he talked into his phone.

His coat was long and black, and the bottom trimming flapped as he kicked it with his heels as he paced. He had on a black hat to match, something between a bowler and a top hat, and from its rim dangled, on either side, two curly locks that floated about his scruffy beard as he walked.

I had seen many with the same attire walking the streets nearby and three similar older men waddled out of the elevator and crossed to the front door.

Max, Zack and I decided to wait for our man at the little patch of carpet near the window. We sat on a deep window sill and whispered comments to each other about the room.

“What do you think that hole is for?” I asked.

Max looked around as he adjusted the umbrella strapped to his bag.

“What hole?”

“Up there,” I said, pointing to the top of a pillar. There was a square hole that looked as if it had been cut out with a dull box cutter.

“Hmm…I don’t know,” he said looking back at me with an expression that said it didn’t really matter.

“Do you think there’s a camera up there?”

“There’s cameras everywhere. Can’t escape.”

“Or like a person spying on us. A secret pillar spy.” I continued.

“What’s the guy look like?” Max asked Zack.

“Tall with glasses.”

We both nodded and looked forward, towards the elevator. For every man (and curiously only men) that came out of it, we inquired, “Is that him?”

“Is that him?” I asked as a pudgy man came out.

“He’s not tall, or wearing glasses,” Zack said flatly.

“Right.”

Finally a man, indeed tall and spectacled, poked his head out of a door to a room with mirrored windows.

“Hey guys. Sorry to keep you waiting,” Phillip said. Pothead not. Sweatshirt not. No striped jammies. I hung my head.

We slid our way into the snug room, single file, and as I looked around I was shocked at what I saw: lines and lines of cheap, packaged, pink, girls’ panties. It was just as sketchy (if not more) as walking in on a coffee table lined with coke. I shot a horrified look at Max, and he returned one, only to smile again as Phillip said, “Please sit down.”

As Phillip clacked away at his computer, I stared at the nearest package of panties. It was decorated with little flowers, and said 5/6 for the age group that would wear them.

“Last names,” Said Phillip without looking away from the screen. We each gave ours, mine last. Next to us, was a group of Jewish men sitting at a desk shouting at each other in Yiddish, perhaps? I caught a few words of English now and then. “Three-hundred and sixty-four,” or “everything will work out fine.” It seemed as though the red-headed one was pitching an idea for a business.

“Were they talking about labels?” Max interpreted later on our walk home.

The room was small, and amazingly, two desks managed to hold their places among the piles of merchandise: the one we sat at and the other with the group of Jewish business men.

“Any pets?” Phillip asked, still not looking at us. Max and I turned to each other. “Charlie,” I said.

“Yes, we might have a cat,” Max related.

Charlie was our favorite character from “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.” We had discussed earlier about adopting a cat and naming it after him.

“He’s got to be rough,” Max had said.

“And sweet, like Charlie,” I had added.

Phillip stood up abruptly and walked over to a printer the dresser-sort-of-thing by the window and handed us the lease.

“Read it over. Take your time, and then just sign,” he said, returning to his seat.

After we each did so, we initialed each page and signed the last. I handed him a cashiers check with my share of the down payment, and Zack and Max started writing their checks.

It was Zack’s first time writing a check and Max asked, “You know how to do that zero zero slash zero zero thing, right?”

“Like this?” Zack asked showing him his check book.

“Yea, that’s good, just making sure.”

“And I just sign here?” Zack asked.

“Yea.”

Zack’s pen scribbled and then he handed the checkbook over to Max. “Can you check and make sure I did everything right?” Max scanned it over and ripped it out. “Good.” He handed both of the checks to Phillip.

“Can we have a receipt?” I asked, still paranoid.

On the way there, I was frantic, “What if we get scammed?” 

“No, Heather. Everything will be fine,” Max sighed in reply, as he did the three other times I had asked that day, “My dad already read over the lease, and he said everything was fine.”

Phillip clicked away at his computer again and finally handed us a pair of keys.”OK, we’re all set. These keys should work, but if they don’t, give me a call.”

The two brass keys dangled from their ring, and as I held it, I imagined unlocking a door to another world. A personal Narnia of sorts. 

We finally said our goodbyes and headed towards the door, but I took time gathering my things. I took the time to take one last glance at the pantie covered walls.

Habits

The ground quaked

As the leg rattled

Sometimes both

Hopping from floor to dust

Shivering at a plague of thoughts

 

Thin skin lifting past

A searching pallet pink–

Blood and teeth–

As it tears away the dryness

 

A hair twirler and an acrobat

Nothing on fire

No baton either

Fingers twisting short locks

Busy again and again

 

Words spit to impale

And alighted flesh a cue

To a palm lifted

As violence forgets love

And simple words that kill the spirit

 

 

A Gray Rat

Feeling dead inside,
Like a gray rat on gray stone
Concrete and tracks
And things taken for granted

Like a slug and a pest
Drooling celestial trails–
Glimmers seen from behind,
Only darkness out front

Like so much evidence,
People determine truth
Like eyes tell the soul
And the aimless wink of a pizza-man

Rats that drag their pink tails
Somehow float past the grime,
More to respect than a parrot that boasts
Rainbow feathers among the clouds

Something about my goals…

In class, we learned about something called a system of thought.

This basically means that thoughts and ideas are prevalent through and through, but does not become concrete or even acceptable until our world finds need for it.

Example:

We all know that when we drop our pencil, it will fall and hit the ground. But, it wasn’t until Newton came along and started talking about this thing called gravity that this idea became anything more than a passing idea. Why did it take so long for gravity to be “discovered”? It is not because we have improved over the years…or evolved…got smarter…it is because we took the time to step back. This idea came alive because our system of thought during that time was receptive to it. We don’t improve, we just change focus.

Example:

Color. We see them all the time, but what made us break down an image into aspects of color? Stepping back. We named them, because it was necessary for us to do so in the name of communication. The color pink might not be pink to someone in another system of thought (in another part of the world) we classify things as we see fit, doesn’t make it absolute. Then, there was art, and we found the need break it down even further. So now, we don’t just have blue and red…we have cerulean and crimson.

So, now I can talk a little bit about my goals, at least when it comes to this useless blog of mine.

Why is what I have to say relevant to what I have been saying? I want my writing to be relative to all systems of thought, not only mine, while transferring an accurate empathyI have experienced, to my readers.

Dream

I had a dream the other night. It was scary and a little funny.

Huge mansion. Endless floors. Purple and green marble. Flying, panning, as in a film, downward through the space. My family affiliated with some kind of mafia. All studies, libraries, offices closing down as i am trying to find a place to hide. I am in a room with two other girls. My sisters? My mother who isn’t my mother is freaking out. I find out my family is addicted to heroine. I hide in a closet. Green curtain? For some reason we decide that won’t work. I hide in blankets at the foot of my bed. I remember thinking this is a stupid idea. Mafia man comes in (he is Asian and short), He tells my “mom” he is looking for me because of some ethnic flaw…or something, apparently they want all the non-pure-bloods killed. This is when I find out why I am hiding, for the first time. He finds me, pulls off the covers. His facial expression is mocking. He laughs as he plunges a syringe into my chest. I feel the stab and the liquid permeating through my muscle. My “mom” is freaking out and screaming and crying. She stabs herself with a blue syringe (mine was red). I later, somehow, find out that it is heroine. The Asian mafia man tells me it is water he has injected me with. He says he is sparing my life, but had to pretend that he was trying to kill me. (what?) He takes me to another room where the mafia women are selling skimpy bikinis in baskets. They try to sell me some, but none fit. Scene  changes to a luxury grocery store. Might be a part of my mansion. My mom and I are shopping. There are free samples of crackers and fruit toppings. I try one. It is very sweet. We decide to buy some. And then,

I wake up.

Disclaimer: This is a dream. My family is not affiliated with any mafia. No one is addicted to heroine.

Coffee and Cigarettes

This might seem a little emo…but, with the weather being what it is today…I feel it is apt. Not my  best writing, but it is a feverish account of my emotions on this sad day.

Coffee and Cigarettes

Work together to calm me down…and all seems beautiful when the two mix.

One through the blood and to the heart, and the other through the lungs and to the mind.

Both seem exciting when mixed.

I’ll miss those cold, sleepy days when the two are necessary to up the spirits.

The sun in me rises when the two mix.

Two worlds combining like a frame, so perfect, it seems chaotic when the two miss.

On my desk; as I sit back, balancing on the edge of open window and closed room,

I see cigarettes, lifeless next to a swirling cup, and I know the two belong together.

Like this pen in my hand, they belong together.

Blood, sweat, and tears. Guilt will tear us apart, but I cling to it

Like the cold in the pit of my insides. Nevertheless they should mix

Should I die for love? Should I die because there isn’t much else to do?

I would die for coffee and cigarettes.

Out of Focus

I once sat on a scratchy gray sofa and remained distracted. I’d gladly admit the convenience of slipping into a temporal state of blissful forgetfulness as the television blinked and blared a couple feet away and the quiet stream of irrelevance vibrated past my lazy form. Lounging uncomfortably, this body, and supposedly its mind, is only animated by the dark frenzy of hair sitting on a tilted head like a pot scrubber on a still wet counter. Meanwhile, the sour, bitter taste of coffee and cigarettes cling to my chapped lips and I can’t stop shuddering against the chill that throbs through these bluing petals. Snapping in and out, like an aged camera, I adjust my lens before flashes of words, familiar tones, and images of superficial ties ascend like windows within a hellishly pallid mind.