The pavement is damp but it is not raining. I pass a lit cigarette between my fingers, dropping ashes. The air thickens with springtime. It is difficult to move.
My beer is cold in my hand and the sun is so nice, I don't hear the crescendo-ing drone next to me. He does not distract me from the girls passing by; darkly dressed, and looking like shadows against the green horizon. They are like a younger variation of the three drinking wine, sitting two tables down. The trees here remind me of a room I used to rent.
There is a mound of manure on the south side of town that is 30 yards tall and can be smelled for miles.
I turn to my new friend to catch him spitting in the face of a psychology student as he shouts louder, gesticulating wildly between a textbook and his head.
"No kraut can read my thoughts!"
He returned my gaze as I replied, "...smells like shit, man."
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
So We Dance
I wipe the sweat zealously from my face.
She draws nearer.
I bend at the knees to bring us eye to eye.
And I grip her as she becomes meerly a thing that clings to me,
as I dance.
She hovers upon the floor moving everyway that I do. She has been staring at me forever. I do not know her.
As my thighs begin to ache I swing my hips lower, broader, slower, and move my legs faster. As I pretend that I'm comfortable, I wonder if she is fatigued at all. I will outlast her though. This has become a contest between us.
So we dance...
"I'm thirsty!" she yells over the music.
I wipe the sweat zealously from my face.
She draws nearer.
I bend at the knees to bring us eye to eye.
And I grip her as she becomes meerly a thing that clings to me,
as I dance.
She hovers upon the floor moving everyway that I do. She has been staring at me forever. I do not know her.
As my thighs begin to ache I swing my hips lower, broader, slower, and move my legs faster. As I pretend that I'm comfortable, I wonder if she is fatigued at all. I will outlast her though. This has become a contest between us.
So we dance...
"I'm thirsty!" she yells over the music.
I wipe the sweat zealously from my face.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
The Pathetic Prophet
He is always a waif.
His tongue is too slow to relate the great things he has witnessed,
in total darkness.
The knife-edge in his voice reflects the light of the sun upon his eyes glaring conviction.
Internal darkness.
He leans on his faith like a crutch that sets too high in the shoulder. He raves that the terrible truth is worse than all of our fears and better than the impossible.
He does not desire these girls; he has seen the Nephilim
woman bathing in the ocean.
I want to cut out his eyes because I know what this pathetic prophet fears despite his faith is
eternal darkness.
His tongue is too slow to relate the great things he has witnessed,
in total darkness.
The knife-edge in his voice reflects the light of the sun upon his eyes glaring conviction.
Internal darkness.
He leans on his faith like a crutch that sets too high in the shoulder. He raves that the terrible truth is worse than all of our fears and better than the impossible.
He does not desire these girls; he has seen the Nephilim
woman bathing in the ocean.
I want to cut out his eyes because I know what this pathetic prophet fears despite his faith is
eternal darkness.
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