Danger Zone

I am drawn to the power of words for their ability to create images that you can only see with your imagination. I see it as a challenge to make reading worthwhile, even if you only read the first couple of lines.

I stand on this stage singing my heart out, hoping my friends will at least show up for support. I can instinctually tell that most of them don't like the idea of friends who ask if they would show up to an open mic night in a venue they have never even heard of. Most will forget based on the unfamiliar name of the place you are trying to tell them actually exists.

I sing this to the crowd of one, and since you are the only one who decided to show, I'm dedicating this one to you.

Laaaaaa, la la la. Whatsoever.
Whaaaaaa, whaaaa, whaaaa. Whatsoever.
Clap-clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
Clap-clap.
Danger Zone.

Two Weeks Notice

Damn you internet! Damn you for the unnatural habits you have formed in my thoughts. Damn you for the false sense of entertainment that beguiles me into checking up on you constantly—like a newborn child—you whine, even though you do not have a voice to call your own. Your very birth into existence fell from heaven unexpectedly, when I too was still a child—too young to know any different, without parents for a guide. I thought it was the right thing for both of us, to embrace your innocence, to feed and clothe you, to coddle and take proud pictures of progress along the way. We're family, with a relationship as neurotic as any other.

I existed before you. I had a whole life without you, full of friends, youth and good-health... well... what I'm getting at is... you need to get a job and start helping out around here, or... let me make this clear... you need to move out. Consider this your two weeks' notice. That means you need to figure your shit out, or... well... I'm changing the locks.

A Spontaneous Moment

I saw you pass by my house and seem startled to see me sitting outside. I waved, but you had already ducked behind the neighbors house. I went to chase you down, but alas, you were not to be found. I roamed the streets wondering where you had been, where you were going, and where you were headed. I wanted to think that you were remembering how we had only had known each other for a few days, yet those particular few days seemed a bit more interesting than the few days before, when we had not yet known the other. I wanted to think that you had to pass by where I might be today just because it would make the day feel more interesting—that since you happened to be in the neighborhood, you decided to take the route that was guaranteed to provide a jolt of adrenaline—and with the rush of chemistry, induce such a fantasy to make your heart caress the back of your breast and cause the hairs to tingle your lips.

A spontaneous moment.

Cloud Vomit

This morning I went downtown to pick up some more tobacco, and during the train ride there my stomach felt like it contained a small pool of acid that was stinging its way through my insides. I wanted to puke, but didn't want the stinging to spread to my tongue and cause my teeth to fall out. Ironically when I got off the train and began to cross the street, there were two piles of vomit on the curb at the crosswalk. It seemed that I might not be the only one that feels the bugs crawling around inside them. I wonder if something is going around. At least on the vomit front it feels like something is happening. Nothing much is happening outside of my sick stomach.

I picked up some more coffee, which I thought was going to be a bad idea, but it turned out fine, and actually soothed my stomach with its warmth. It is unusually cold this morning for July, and overcast with the threat of rain lingering just below the clouds. Not hard rain, just a few sprinkles. It feels as if the clouds have a burning inside their stomachs as well, and would splash us with their vomit if the right combination of smells wafts up from the streets and tickles their nostrils.

String of Thought

I can get thoughts twisted up so tight, that they feel clogged in my brain for days, and the simple action of writing them out can be all I need to untie them. The thoughts just have to be pulled out in whatever tangled mess that are in and laid on a clean sheet of paper, then I can start to work on the knots until the string of thought feels untangled.