Strains
of red hot
and cool blue
Jazz
pour onto the sidewalk
next to the banished smokers
who took the D from Brooklyn
to wax poetic about
Langston Hughes and
Gil Scott-Heron
to the beat and the rhythm
of the music that just wants
to soar through the skyline
across a deaf country
and settle in Los Angeles
California
with balmy weather
and palm trees
and two cats who
Meow and Purr
to the cadence
of St. Nicholas
(relocated)
Monday, December 22, 2008
Two Chopsticks
Two chopsticks stick out of her hair.
It's not a memory,
it's a photograph sitting on
the mantle, nearby where crosswords
got solved in tandem.
Going outwards there's cartons of cigarettes,
a door that slams,
larches, barns,
and a dog, running upwards across the dunes,
performing a ballet across the sand
past petrified forests that look like
two chopsticks sticking out of the earth.
It's not a memory,
it's a photograph sitting on
the mantle, nearby where crosswords
got solved in tandem.
Going outwards there's cartons of cigarettes,
a door that slams,
larches, barns,
and a dog, running upwards across the dunes,
performing a ballet across the sand
past petrified forests that look like
two chopsticks sticking out of the earth.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Journey
The brick buildings passed by on the left and the right as the bus rolled through town.
He had woken up early in order to make his way a few hours away to another village a few miles up north, which wasn't, all-together, a necessary trip. But nevertheless, he had settled on the premise of going there a few days before and his mind was set. He felt he owed it to himself to stick to his resolve. The previous day had involved simply too much havoc and uncontrolled mayhem that this little gesture of self-control seemed to be all he had. The sun was slowly creeping up above the horizon, and what had been dark two-dimensional scene dressings slowly developed into luscious and fertile trees. They offered the third dimension every time the breeze coming off of the water moved the branches enough to exhibit the shoots of sunlight behind them, casting all sorts of shadows. There was nothing much left, or rather yet out, on the streets, except a few cats which would occasionally appear on fences and bus-stops watching the bus crawl past. He sat quietly, staring out the window, until the fog started to separate from the earth.
She hadn't really been able to get any sleep, and had decided after waking up for the seventh time in the night to just get dressed and go early. She was on the bus going north in order to meet a friend from university. The two of them had known each other for a few years, but hadn't had the opportunity to see each other in about eight months. She hadn't yet finished school, and every time she talked to someone who had it was this constant reminder of the fact. Nevertheless, there wasn't anything else going on that day and it seemed like a good little escape. While she lay in bed the night before, unable to fall asleep from the pills she had to take, she had thought about excuses she might use to get out of the day if it took a turn for the worse. After forty-nine minutes of lying with her eyes wide open, staring at the little patch of grey spackle in the ceiling, she had developed a little rolodex of possible reasons. As the sun started to climb a bit, she took the time to go over them in her head. She had made up her mind that she was going to have to use one today, and wanted to be prepared. She sat silent as the bus sped down the road until the trees shook the dew off of their leaves.
He hadn't yet looked at her, but it was only a matter of time. Ten minutes or so after he had broken his stare from the window, he finally noticed her hair. There wasn't much particular about her, but it was this fact that seemed to make her stand out. He was still a little out of it, and as he looked at the back of her head he realized he couldn't quite realize what color her hair was. The low-powered lights of the bus cast everything in a drab and pale yellow, and it kept throwing light waves off that seemed to be of different frequencies. It became almost a meditation for him, trying to pin down exactly what color he was looking at. He had narrowed it down to somewhere between blonde and red, and settled in his mind on some sort of strawberry blonde. But as the sun came up and everything became more clear the pursuit of color became less of a challenge, and he turned back towards the window. It was double paned and some rain or dew had gotten in between the two panes. He could make out her hair in the reflection, slightly distorted through the liquid. Trying to trace the water's path consumed him.
She hadn't yet looked at him, but it was only a matter of time. She knew someone had started looking at her, though, but she felt too nauseous to turn around and see who it was. As if their chins were connected by an invisible thread of string, as soon as he turned his head to the right, she turned hers to look at him. He hadn't shaved, probably in a few days. She wasn't sure about this fact; some guys grow stubble faster than others. Asides from this, she was amazed by how unbelievably still his head was. She could see the grey and blue of his eyes looking at the creeks of rain in between the window, and started to move her eyes with his. Following his pupils in the window became like staring at the horizon on a moving ship and she felt her whole body, down to her stomach, stand still. After a while everything except his eyes became a blur, as they slowly moved through the glass. She felt like they were looking right at each other, and couldn't handle it anymore. She turned her head and rested it on the cold window. The chill went down her spine and into her feet, and she curled her toes in reaction.
He wanted to know what her hair against his cheek felt like.
She wanted to know what having him trace her curves with his eyes felt like.
They wanted to stop the bus and stand up and feel what it was like to control anything.
The bus just kept cutting through the fog and the dew and the chances of them ever feeling anything at all.
He had woken up early in order to make his way a few hours away to another village a few miles up north, which wasn't, all-together, a necessary trip. But nevertheless, he had settled on the premise of going there a few days before and his mind was set. He felt he owed it to himself to stick to his resolve. The previous day had involved simply too much havoc and uncontrolled mayhem that this little gesture of self-control seemed to be all he had. The sun was slowly creeping up above the horizon, and what had been dark two-dimensional scene dressings slowly developed into luscious and fertile trees. They offered the third dimension every time the breeze coming off of the water moved the branches enough to exhibit the shoots of sunlight behind them, casting all sorts of shadows. There was nothing much left, or rather yet out, on the streets, except a few cats which would occasionally appear on fences and bus-stops watching the bus crawl past. He sat quietly, staring out the window, until the fog started to separate from the earth.
She hadn't really been able to get any sleep, and had decided after waking up for the seventh time in the night to just get dressed and go early. She was on the bus going north in order to meet a friend from university. The two of them had known each other for a few years, but hadn't had the opportunity to see each other in about eight months. She hadn't yet finished school, and every time she talked to someone who had it was this constant reminder of the fact. Nevertheless, there wasn't anything else going on that day and it seemed like a good little escape. While she lay in bed the night before, unable to fall asleep from the pills she had to take, she had thought about excuses she might use to get out of the day if it took a turn for the worse. After forty-nine minutes of lying with her eyes wide open, staring at the little patch of grey spackle in the ceiling, she had developed a little rolodex of possible reasons. As the sun started to climb a bit, she took the time to go over them in her head. She had made up her mind that she was going to have to use one today, and wanted to be prepared. She sat silent as the bus sped down the road until the trees shook the dew off of their leaves.
He hadn't yet looked at her, but it was only a matter of time. Ten minutes or so after he had broken his stare from the window, he finally noticed her hair. There wasn't much particular about her, but it was this fact that seemed to make her stand out. He was still a little out of it, and as he looked at the back of her head he realized he couldn't quite realize what color her hair was. The low-powered lights of the bus cast everything in a drab and pale yellow, and it kept throwing light waves off that seemed to be of different frequencies. It became almost a meditation for him, trying to pin down exactly what color he was looking at. He had narrowed it down to somewhere between blonde and red, and settled in his mind on some sort of strawberry blonde. But as the sun came up and everything became more clear the pursuit of color became less of a challenge, and he turned back towards the window. It was double paned and some rain or dew had gotten in between the two panes. He could make out her hair in the reflection, slightly distorted through the liquid. Trying to trace the water's path consumed him.
She hadn't yet looked at him, but it was only a matter of time. She knew someone had started looking at her, though, but she felt too nauseous to turn around and see who it was. As if their chins were connected by an invisible thread of string, as soon as he turned his head to the right, she turned hers to look at him. He hadn't shaved, probably in a few days. She wasn't sure about this fact; some guys grow stubble faster than others. Asides from this, she was amazed by how unbelievably still his head was. She could see the grey and blue of his eyes looking at the creeks of rain in between the window, and started to move her eyes with his. Following his pupils in the window became like staring at the horizon on a moving ship and she felt her whole body, down to her stomach, stand still. After a while everything except his eyes became a blur, as they slowly moved through the glass. She felt like they were looking right at each other, and couldn't handle it anymore. She turned her head and rested it on the cold window. The chill went down her spine and into her feet, and she curled her toes in reaction.
He wanted to know what her hair against his cheek felt like.
She wanted to know what having him trace her curves with his eyes felt like.
They wanted to stop the bus and stand up and feel what it was like to control anything.
The bus just kept cutting through the fog and the dew and the chances of them ever feeling anything at all.
Bus
Soft heat seeped across the small space between their hands for just a second. The lumbering bus pulled through a stop with no one getting off and no one getting on and the jolt of the gears clicking into place threw them off balance. Her hand retreated into the pockets of her jacket, shuffling around for a second as if she was looking for something she knew wasn't there. All night he had tried to make their extremities touch. In the restaurant his feet shuffled blindly across the floor, hoping for an accidental brush with hers. He had planned to brusquely pull his feet away and apologize, hoping she'd say she didn't mind. Then he would be able to sit patiently, until his wandering led him back to her placidity and he could leave them there in order to find out how long it would take for her to pull away. The number of seconds, minutes, hours that they could remain locked in that blissful electricity would tell volumes. But he kept losing the nerve, and would pull backwards till he could see her worn-out sneakers underneath the table to put his feet right next to, passing the responsibility of collision onto her shoulders. But all night her movements eluded his.
The bus was quiet with tired drunks and bewildered travelers stuck staring out the windows. Their skin was tightly pushed against the cold glass as the night zoomed past them. Her dark and aromatic hair drew his eyes down to where the first curls began; her pale cheek and lively eyes were polarized by her hair. He pulled his hand back, embarrassed like a child caught stealing a dollar from his mother. He turned towards a mess of empty seats. Someone had written Fucking Love/Love Fucking with a blue marker on the green vinyl cover of one of them. He could feel the bus turning and the cold air rushing through the window across the aisle. Shielding his eyes, he turned back towards her white face, her brown hair, and her hazel eyes and felt the warmth of her hands leaping out of her pockets and across the seat and into his.
The bus was quiet with tired drunks and bewildered travelers stuck staring out the windows. Their skin was tightly pushed against the cold glass as the night zoomed past them. Her dark and aromatic hair drew his eyes down to where the first curls began; her pale cheek and lively eyes were polarized by her hair. He pulled his hand back, embarrassed like a child caught stealing a dollar from his mother. He turned towards a mess of empty seats. Someone had written Fucking Love/Love Fucking with a blue marker on the green vinyl cover of one of them. He could feel the bus turning and the cold air rushing through the window across the aisle. Shielding his eyes, he turned back towards her white face, her brown hair, and her hazel eyes and felt the warmth of her hands leaping out of her pockets and across the seat and into his.
Ocean II
He pulls into the parking lot of Native Well Ocean Beach just a little past 11:30. The crinkle crackle of the sand spinning through the treads of his tires wakes him up a bit. He's ended up here enough times in his life that the drive over becomes a monotonous series of twists and turns through grey streets, numbing him to the sensation of the road. But now, the sand that has spread onto the asphalt reminds him where he is. The pale yellow of the moon is neutralized by the all-absorbing blacktop and it won't be until he gets to the sand and the water that he'll be able to see his own feet. But for now, the grit beneath his shoes holds promise of the tide. The power of the ebbing waters seem to carry him off with the algae and the swirls of sand.
Like feeling for stairs in the dark he almost falls as the parking lot abruptly gives way to the eternity of sand. Every step is a journey in and of itself, pulling him closer to the ocean - the crashing waves slowly drowning out the passing cars on the parkway bridge a mile or so down the stretch. The moon seems to burst out, bouncing off of the earth triumphantly, except for the small patches of black sand. "Fallen stars," she called those patches - little bits of iron clinging to the granules of silica. She had a name for everything, a catch phrase for explaining away books of information. He can't seem to make out the start of the water so he gets on his hands and knees, hoping his hands hit the scrolls of water from the crashing waves before his pants get wet. But it's the spray that hits him first, sticking to his face and chapping his lips with its saltiness. He rocks himself backwards and sits, his eyes acclimating towards the horizon, where the dark blue of the sky collides violently with the black of the the ocean. The water seems broken only by little white spurts of life and power, clashing with the void that forms between the sky and the water. He thinks that it must be that void where the sting and the cold of the water is emanating from. The moon sweeps across the sky and emerges from the crowd of colorless clouds. It pushes away the void and installs an empty distinction between water and air in its place.
He can remember, now, the sound of her voice. She's trying to coax him to go out to dinner. Her voice rolls out of her throat and down the curves of her body, echoing through the valleys and ridges formed by the white dress she always seems to be wearing. "There's a cute little bistro in town," she offers. Her head cocked to one side, she makes some joke about how locals get their mail there they spend so much time there. As he closes his eyes he can feel her pulling herself closer to him, offering that maybe tonight, just tonight, they could just stay in. It could just be them. He remembers how perfectly the shape of her lips fit his. "Oh god," he seemed to want to say as her eyes locked into his - their dark brown were endless.
For a minute, the spit of the ocean is hers. The crashing waves are leaning towards him, embracing him. The current pulling at his feet becomes her body. He's in her arms as she pulls him out towards the void. She keeps him in her, as she hisses and screams in delight. He's working through her, now, as the water pulls across his legs. The crests of the waves seem to grow more and more as he fights against the riptide pulling across his waist. She's trying to turn him over, trying to twist him inside out. He flails and screams back at the pounding waves and for a minute the whole ocean seems to freeze in time, the two bodies held in perfect equilibrium. But he realizes all to quickly that what seems to be recognition - what he wishes is embarrassment - has turned to contempt. He gives in and swims to the bottom. The moon shoots in beams through the surface and gives him enough light to navigate grabbing onto the bottom. The sand swirls around his hands and his lungs burn. His release floats him up towards the surface. His weakness revealed, he turns over and lets her hands run across his body. He can remember, now, the manifesto that hung in the air between them. She was tired of this, sick of that, worn out of everything. And he can remember, now, the blank stare towards to the print of a Jackson Pollack she had in her one-bedroom apartment. The chaos of the paint seemed empty without the texture - without knowing how much hit the canvas and at what time.
He collapses back towards the fallen stars. The waves that crash on the beach shoot through him, blending into a symphony of cacophony until he is numb enough to feel like he's floating a foot above the sand. Until nothing but the magnetism of the iron keeps him from flying away. Until the ocean crashes, and roars, and rolls her away from him. Until he can't tell how much is hitting him and at what time.
Like feeling for stairs in the dark he almost falls as the parking lot abruptly gives way to the eternity of sand. Every step is a journey in and of itself, pulling him closer to the ocean - the crashing waves slowly drowning out the passing cars on the parkway bridge a mile or so down the stretch. The moon seems to burst out, bouncing off of the earth triumphantly, except for the small patches of black sand. "Fallen stars," she called those patches - little bits of iron clinging to the granules of silica. She had a name for everything, a catch phrase for explaining away books of information. He can't seem to make out the start of the water so he gets on his hands and knees, hoping his hands hit the scrolls of water from the crashing waves before his pants get wet. But it's the spray that hits him first, sticking to his face and chapping his lips with its saltiness. He rocks himself backwards and sits, his eyes acclimating towards the horizon, where the dark blue of the sky collides violently with the black of the the ocean. The water seems broken only by little white spurts of life and power, clashing with the void that forms between the sky and the water. He thinks that it must be that void where the sting and the cold of the water is emanating from. The moon sweeps across the sky and emerges from the crowd of colorless clouds. It pushes away the void and installs an empty distinction between water and air in its place.
He can remember, now, the sound of her voice. She's trying to coax him to go out to dinner. Her voice rolls out of her throat and down the curves of her body, echoing through the valleys and ridges formed by the white dress she always seems to be wearing. "There's a cute little bistro in town," she offers. Her head cocked to one side, she makes some joke about how locals get their mail there they spend so much time there. As he closes his eyes he can feel her pulling herself closer to him, offering that maybe tonight, just tonight, they could just stay in. It could just be them. He remembers how perfectly the shape of her lips fit his. "Oh god," he seemed to want to say as her eyes locked into his - their dark brown were endless.
For a minute, the spit of the ocean is hers. The crashing waves are leaning towards him, embracing him. The current pulling at his feet becomes her body. He's in her arms as she pulls him out towards the void. She keeps him in her, as she hisses and screams in delight. He's working through her, now, as the water pulls across his legs. The crests of the waves seem to grow more and more as he fights against the riptide pulling across his waist. She's trying to turn him over, trying to twist him inside out. He flails and screams back at the pounding waves and for a minute the whole ocean seems to freeze in time, the two bodies held in perfect equilibrium. But he realizes all to quickly that what seems to be recognition - what he wishes is embarrassment - has turned to contempt. He gives in and swims to the bottom. The moon shoots in beams through the surface and gives him enough light to navigate grabbing onto the bottom. The sand swirls around his hands and his lungs burn. His release floats him up towards the surface. His weakness revealed, he turns over and lets her hands run across his body. He can remember, now, the manifesto that hung in the air between them. She was tired of this, sick of that, worn out of everything. And he can remember, now, the blank stare towards to the print of a Jackson Pollack she had in her one-bedroom apartment. The chaos of the paint seemed empty without the texture - without knowing how much hit the canvas and at what time.
He collapses back towards the fallen stars. The waves that crash on the beach shoot through him, blending into a symphony of cacophony until he is numb enough to feel like he's floating a foot above the sand. Until nothing but the magnetism of the iron keeps him from flying away. Until the ocean crashes, and roars, and rolls her away from him. Until he can't tell how much is hitting him and at what time.
Ocean I
The sound of the ocean drowns out the passing cars on the road as I slowly make my way through the sand towards the water. Each step is a laborious event as the sand crumbles beneath my feet, pushing me forward. As I move closer the spray of the water sticks to my face and I can taste the salt as it chaps my lips. The dark blue of the sky collides with the distant horizon of the black ocean and the dark void that emerges between the two seems endless. I can feel myself drawn to it. The colorless space seems to be where the salt and the sting and the cold is emanating from. As the moon moves out from behind the clouds, the water and the sky seem to seperate and the void fades away, creating an empty distinction. The pale yellow light of the full moon surrounds me.
I can remember, now, the sound of her voice. At first all I had were the curves of her body, constrained by the white dress pushed tight against her dark skin. But now I can hear her. "Let's go out tonight," she offers. I turn to her and smile, "Where would we go?" She stands up and waves her arms, playing the role of tour guide. "There is a cute little bistro on 53rd street, locals practically have their mail delivered there they spend so much time there." She giggles and falls back down into my welcoming arms. I scan her smile and the turn of her lips draw my eyes to hers. Their dark brown is so warm. "If it's that popular, we should probably make a reservation," I muse. Her mouth nears mine as she answers, "Or I guess we could just stay in..." I can remember, now, how perfectly the shape of her lips met mine.
For a minute the spit of the ocean is hers, our embrace kept together by the crashing water. The curves of the current, her body, the hiss of the waves, her laughter. She lures me towards her, the void seduces me. I'm in her arms as she pulls me out towards the horizon. The ebb of the water surrounds me and splits across my legs. I push back and feel the dark surface of the ocean swim through me. She hisses and shouts in delight as I work through her. The give and take makes us one, and for a minute our opposite forces hold us in a perfect equilibrium. The depth sits still for just a second until she cannot handle it and the riptide pulls hard at my waist. I swim through and away and I can feel her recoil from me. What I mistake for embarrassment I quickly realize is contempt. The crests of her waves grow up and up as she breathes heavier. Her body twists and turns around my legs and torso and I give in. She sweeps me in, spits me out, and turns me over. I lash against her, but it only makes her work harder as I fight meaninglessly. I exhale and give in, my limp body runs through her hands until I float up towards the yellow moonlight at the surface.
Her manifesto hung in the air between us and made a clean break. She's tired of this, worn out of that, sick of whatever. Even now it free-floats through me from time to time, pushing me down and out of her one-bedroom. The sensation of her cool skin has been reduced to the fragile surface tension of the water. The whole affair is too pathetic, too depressing to admit and I lay down on the sand ashamed of her temptation. Of her seduction and of her brashness. I can feel the pit opening and pulling me down and down and down towards the grey, away from the yellow, apart from the blue, out of the black. The crashing of the waves on the shore shoots through me and leaves nothing but the thought of the bistro and the brown of her eyes keeping me on the ground. I pull myself up as the ocean crashes, and roars, and rolls her away from me.
I can remember, now, the sound of her voice. At first all I had were the curves of her body, constrained by the white dress pushed tight against her dark skin. But now I can hear her. "Let's go out tonight," she offers. I turn to her and smile, "Where would we go?" She stands up and waves her arms, playing the role of tour guide. "There is a cute little bistro on 53rd street, locals practically have their mail delivered there they spend so much time there." She giggles and falls back down into my welcoming arms. I scan her smile and the turn of her lips draw my eyes to hers. Their dark brown is so warm. "If it's that popular, we should probably make a reservation," I muse. Her mouth nears mine as she answers, "Or I guess we could just stay in..." I can remember, now, how perfectly the shape of her lips met mine.
For a minute the spit of the ocean is hers, our embrace kept together by the crashing water. The curves of the current, her body, the hiss of the waves, her laughter. She lures me towards her, the void seduces me. I'm in her arms as she pulls me out towards the horizon. The ebb of the water surrounds me and splits across my legs. I push back and feel the dark surface of the ocean swim through me. She hisses and shouts in delight as I work through her. The give and take makes us one, and for a minute our opposite forces hold us in a perfect equilibrium. The depth sits still for just a second until she cannot handle it and the riptide pulls hard at my waist. I swim through and away and I can feel her recoil from me. What I mistake for embarrassment I quickly realize is contempt. The crests of her waves grow up and up as she breathes heavier. Her body twists and turns around my legs and torso and I give in. She sweeps me in, spits me out, and turns me over. I lash against her, but it only makes her work harder as I fight meaninglessly. I exhale and give in, my limp body runs through her hands until I float up towards the yellow moonlight at the surface.
Her manifesto hung in the air between us and made a clean break. She's tired of this, worn out of that, sick of whatever. Even now it free-floats through me from time to time, pushing me down and out of her one-bedroom. The sensation of her cool skin has been reduced to the fragile surface tension of the water. The whole affair is too pathetic, too depressing to admit and I lay down on the sand ashamed of her temptation. Of her seduction and of her brashness. I can feel the pit opening and pulling me down and down and down towards the grey, away from the yellow, apart from the blue, out of the black. The crashing of the waves on the shore shoots through me and leaves nothing but the thought of the bistro and the brown of her eyes keeping me on the ground. I pull myself up as the ocean crashes, and roars, and rolls her away from me.
Hair
Her hair is fucking spectacular. No one ever believes me when I say that the first thing I notice on a girl is her hair. The worst are other girls. They roll their eyes and laugh, thinking it's just some line I use to make them think I'm not interested in how perky their tits are. Like it's all some ploy to play the sensitive guy. All I know is that her, this girl, her hair is fucking spectacular. She moves across the bar with a presence that made me turn back towards the rail of unopened high-end liquors, untouched by the cheap bastards who use this place as a pit-stop between work and their rat-hole apartments, fueling up on high-proof spirits in any attempt to forget they just wasted fourteen hours of their life. I come in only occasionally, whenever a few cigarettes on the walk home won't do it. The bartenders have heavy hands and pour out shots of tequila into highball glasses just to completely eradicate any chance of accidentally measuring a drink. It does the job. Every now and then one of the guys that frequent the place brings over some over-sexed coworker of his hoping he'll get her liquored up enough to fuck him, but she inevitably gets so drunk she starts thinking she can do better. The thing with this place is that there's never anyone here that you can do better with. You only ever move sideways – from barstool to barstool the same mess of a human being. We slouch, our thoughts all the same. "I've got enough for a few more drinks;" "Why don't I just quit;" "I should talk to her, maybe I could fuck her tonight." Tonight, though, all I could think about was that hair.
It's been too long since I spent a night with a woman. I'm the first to admit it. Honestly, I couldn't tell you what it is. It's been like being a hitter on a bad streak. Eventually it gets so bad you stop shaving, start wearing your undershirt inside out... Anything to just hit the ball squarely and get on base. The problem is that I just don't care anymore. I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't take the opportunity if it presented itself, but what's the point of trying anymore. Every time in my life I open my fucking mouth and try, I just end up sitting back here nursing whatever part of my ego just got wounded with enough Jose Cuervo to make it all fade into gold and silver. Tonight's no different, expect for that hair. That constant reminder of the fact I haven't gotten any, of the fact I'm sitting here alone on the way back to a one-bedroom, one-bathroom, half-kitchen apartment. I can see it swishing around her shoulders as she turns the corner of the pool table she's at. Every shot, every aim moves that hair, catching my eye in the mirror behind the bar. It's covered with fifteen years of smoke and Windex, making it like dull silver, catching only colors and amorphous shapes. But it catches every movement and every strand of that hair.
She's the type of woman that's got more of a future than a past. The thought chills me to the bone; the rampant uncertainty of whether I could say the same for myself terrifies me. I can't look her in the eyes. I can't even dream of talking to her now. The thought of something less than perfection isn't worth the risk. The constant noise of the bar falls into a cadence, like laughter mocking the fact I'm alone. I ask the bartender for another, waving away the shaker of ice, hoping that if the tequila is warm enough it could do more than just numb me. She moves effortlessly, confident that her step won't falter. Her movements ripple out like a wave and I shuffle on the stool, feeling her presence run through me. The tequila follows, chasing her away, its empty promises only subdued by the fact that it's always there. Its stench follows me home and sleeps with me, wrapping my body in a cocoon.
The tequila swims down my throat. I drown in it, alcoholic tears blur my vision and as I swallow the popping of my ears silences the bar. It's warmth replaces her, my mouth caressed by it. But it's fleeting, and I ascend upwards towards the cacophony and discord. The cadence falls back in place, clink and clatter surrounds me. My eyes dry up and the mirror comes back into focus. Light pours in as I surface from the depths, my pupils dilate and her hair becomes even clearer. Its auburn smoothness replaces the tequila's gold burn. My throat is on fire as I breathe air and her instead of alcohol. The bar crescendos to a roar as she turns towards the mirror. The shape of her eyes forbidden, I look down at the emptiness in front of me. The glass, which was so full of promise, is only a reminder now.
I can't handle it anymore, the whole bar. It overwhelms me, pushing me down and out. She comes up, right next to me; I can feel her breath on my neck as she orders. Whiskey sour. Whiskey sour. My body tenses up, it won't let me move away from the safety of my twenty inches of wood and vinyl. I can almost imagine that hair brushing against my cheek as if it was my hair. As if I could move so effortlessly, so calmly, so sure that this wasn't it for me. I feel sick just thinking about it and the bar pushes harder and stronger. Down and out, the street is a welcome sight. And slowly, the cadence fades into the disheartening quiet that is the never-ending noise of a city that doesn't sleep. My head clears until all that's left is that hair. My god... That hair.
It's been too long since I spent a night with a woman. I'm the first to admit it. Honestly, I couldn't tell you what it is. It's been like being a hitter on a bad streak. Eventually it gets so bad you stop shaving, start wearing your undershirt inside out... Anything to just hit the ball squarely and get on base. The problem is that I just don't care anymore. I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't take the opportunity if it presented itself, but what's the point of trying anymore. Every time in my life I open my fucking mouth and try, I just end up sitting back here nursing whatever part of my ego just got wounded with enough Jose Cuervo to make it all fade into gold and silver. Tonight's no different, expect for that hair. That constant reminder of the fact I haven't gotten any, of the fact I'm sitting here alone on the way back to a one-bedroom, one-bathroom, half-kitchen apartment. I can see it swishing around her shoulders as she turns the corner of the pool table she's at. Every shot, every aim moves that hair, catching my eye in the mirror behind the bar. It's covered with fifteen years of smoke and Windex, making it like dull silver, catching only colors and amorphous shapes. But it catches every movement and every strand of that hair.
She's the type of woman that's got more of a future than a past. The thought chills me to the bone; the rampant uncertainty of whether I could say the same for myself terrifies me. I can't look her in the eyes. I can't even dream of talking to her now. The thought of something less than perfection isn't worth the risk. The constant noise of the bar falls into a cadence, like laughter mocking the fact I'm alone. I ask the bartender for another, waving away the shaker of ice, hoping that if the tequila is warm enough it could do more than just numb me. She moves effortlessly, confident that her step won't falter. Her movements ripple out like a wave and I shuffle on the stool, feeling her presence run through me. The tequila follows, chasing her away, its empty promises only subdued by the fact that it's always there. Its stench follows me home and sleeps with me, wrapping my body in a cocoon.
The tequila swims down my throat. I drown in it, alcoholic tears blur my vision and as I swallow the popping of my ears silences the bar. It's warmth replaces her, my mouth caressed by it. But it's fleeting, and I ascend upwards towards the cacophony and discord. The cadence falls back in place, clink and clatter surrounds me. My eyes dry up and the mirror comes back into focus. Light pours in as I surface from the depths, my pupils dilate and her hair becomes even clearer. Its auburn smoothness replaces the tequila's gold burn. My throat is on fire as I breathe air and her instead of alcohol. The bar crescendos to a roar as she turns towards the mirror. The shape of her eyes forbidden, I look down at the emptiness in front of me. The glass, which was so full of promise, is only a reminder now.
I can't handle it anymore, the whole bar. It overwhelms me, pushing me down and out. She comes up, right next to me; I can feel her breath on my neck as she orders. Whiskey sour. Whiskey sour. My body tenses up, it won't let me move away from the safety of my twenty inches of wood and vinyl. I can almost imagine that hair brushing against my cheek as if it was my hair. As if I could move so effortlessly, so calmly, so sure that this wasn't it for me. I feel sick just thinking about it and the bar pushes harder and stronger. Down and out, the street is a welcome sight. And slowly, the cadence fades into the disheartening quiet that is the never-ending noise of a city that doesn't sleep. My head clears until all that's left is that hair. My god... That hair.
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