Tall Tales of Lateral Mind

I’m waking up. I’m waking up. My eyelids jolt up, fall, and then rise once more. My elbows extend behind my head and my breast is forced out like rubber being stretched in opposite directions, the tension, releasing sultry stale still intoxicated energy from the night before. The smell of rain pokes into my nostrils tickling my senses and temporarily relieving me of the allergies that like a fly who in mind thinks it is a vulture hovering for the fallen crumb have been pestering me since my arrival to this town. My hair is squalid, my faced wrinkled and worn, and the smell of sex still lingers on my skin. I’m waking up. I’m waking up. A bum sitting very comfortably among the sidewalk lets go of a crooked and toothless smile (I’m sure he owns this town), his back to an adult video store, fingers sprawling the cement until he finds his treasure. His hand gracefully rises up to his mouth where he inserts half a smoked rollie. For a second I forget this town is filled to the brim of its ashtray with rolled cigarettes and I wonder if it was mine from the yesterday. My eyes search up and down and across this unfamiliar street and next to the bum I see a piece of cardboard that in chicken scratch reads “we are the same, spare some change?” I’m waking up. I’m waking up. My attention has been lost.
I stare down the avenue called 20th, cars in inexorably scampering too and fro, and what catches my eye but a mesmerizing display of red and yellow electric lights. Sheep mindlessly bumping into each other in attempts for that closer look while murmurs crawl along the pavement. The baker, with a scowl carved across his face and a loaf of crusty French bread still in hand waving people away from the front of his store, I guess it is bad for business even bakers need to make a living.
“There has been an accident!” someone shouts above the honking of cars and bells from bicyclist riding past, there entire life flashing before their face, eyes wide open without any attention on the bicycle path that lines either side of the road. For a moment all I can see is feet of every walk of life. Faded and torn Nikes, Converse with holes throughout each toe, and penny loafers sporting pennies marked over with a symbol of anarchy. I focus my eyes more trying to pry them open to force the remaining fatigue out and I notice a hand, palm to the sky, resting still on the pavement between the restless Dockers and slacks, the high waters and canvas deck shoes with politics littering their surface. There has been a dance. A dance that won’t ever start again or at least in the hips of the now lifeless that sleeps next to the ambulance. The dance I notice is now waltzing the length of the arm whose out stretch palm belongs too. I’m thrown off a second when I believe to see a smile on the face of this victim but after a second glance I realize my mistake. His bike helmet cracked like a spider web is only stuck to his head by what seems like blood and matted hair. I realize how contort his face is and my hands make a break for my own, reassurance that it is still there.
Next to this martyr, innocently waiting for the twist of the key, a Volvo with blood smeared across the front window and young man leaning against it turns his head to dignity and allows tears to stream down his cheek. One hand to his mouth with fingers curled and the other clenching forcefully onto a cigarette while it trembles back and forth. His hair worn long with a bandana tied around his head. His beard messy and jeans torn and the knees. He wore sandals that could compare to that of Jesus. He wore a white v-neck covered by a sandy colored cardigan with a pen attached to it that read, “Love not violence.
“I couldn’t have seen him, I didn’t see him I swear.” His voice undulating with fear.
I couldn’t help but listen to the plethora of conversations between sheep and I noticed a child reach up and tug on the arm of an officer securing the scene. “Wha’ habben mister? Is he goin to heaven? ”
“Inexorable data my child!” Screamed the bum who slipped into the scene with a frightful look on his face, angry and twisted.
“I had a dream last night my good ladies and gentleman,” his arms conducting the air and the slight sprinkle falling from the sky. His knees bent and wobbling from side to side and I could tell he didn’t have much balance left in his rigid chewed body.
“I dreamt of telephone wires dangling from the sky, malicious and hungry, wrapping like vines around the legs of this city and its people. The wires crawled up our legs around our waist and into our eyes and then out our ears until it found another soul to harbor its intent until we were all attached and consumed by numbers and figures and profit margins. Then a herd of waves came crashing down the streets and washed away the telephone wires and replaced them with starfish. They starfish had teethe and ate through our flesh until our bones and brains were left and we screamed with indifference just to hear our own voices that sounded more and more like dial tones until that single note hung in the air as one unit.”
I checked the faces of the people standing around who even bothered to listen to the mindless rambles of this man whose crooked smile only grew in size exposing less than half a mouth full of teeth. Blank were their faces as they stood listening to such unscrupulous nonsense.
“Then all the little critters of the woods scampered into town with brooms made from sticks and tall grass and dust pans from bark and began to sweep our remains into one pile that was hauled out and thrown into the sound to be washed out to sea. They then took the town without effort and worked your desk jobs and waited tables for deer and bears while birds prepared tea and skunks worked the fax machines. The sound of wind had become extinct and instead the dial tones from our voices remained and hollowed in the wind and out over the sea.” He chuckled and took another drag from another half smoked rollie he had commandeered from the pavement throughout telling his tall tale.
I looked back to the naturalist weeping now in the driver side of his Volvo. He hadn’t noticed the bum and all his knowledge of nothing and heard nothing but the sound of his own wavering voice and tears. The paramedics heaved the body of the bicyclist onto a stretcher and carried him away in a body bag. I’m waking up. I am waking up.

She said the grass was greener on the otherside
Too wet and soft to stand up tall
I said "But dear I don't mind at all, so soft and small but I can bare it all."
She replied "But babe I'm all that you got so follow me to that one gentle spot where the trees sway in the grip of the wind where beauty is marked by the way the branches bend."
Oh I wish I could dear, but it is that we fear to bend and break with all our fears.
so I'll stay right here next to the comforting of my solace, warming electric lights, with planes that won't every reach their flight.
To be unbothered by my own mess
To fade away to like wrinkles in a shirt thats pressed
To reach solitude at its best where birds use my head as a nest
So soft and small
So soft and small
That is all my dear
She looked at me and then walked away
Unbothered here I think that I'll remain

If writing was a monster, one who thrived off enegery and thought, that could devour doubt and hope then I live Monohans, Texas where nothing ever really happens and any chimerical presence is obliterated by cheap beer, and tobacco products. I read inumerous beatifully executed entries on this online journal and feel compelled to write. what happens though when the finger tips tap the keys and nothing is written across the screen? One day I'll post an entry that changes everything we know about everything. or maybe I'll post another entry about posting an entry and forever be lost to this pugnacious cycle of verbally throwing punches in my own direction for not getting off my ass and posting an entry worthy of being made avalaible for everyone else to view at their own pleasure. Maybe one day I will be able to write a poetic abstraction of words that might be coherant to someone other than myself. One day I'll spew out letters and words, syllables that will be drawn into the reluctant pupils of someone ready for change. This person, unmovable by any who have tried, will find themselves gazing at their own reflection in the computer while words I have contrived for a purpose will crawl under their skin and ooze out their pours. Or maybe i'll write...........

*sigh.....

Something are better left unsaid.
We all must keep at least one secret to ourselves.

I find it exhausting that Life likes to hit you with its bad hand of cards several at a time. it seems once i've started recovering from the first wave of full house's and Sraight's that i'm hit with the Royal Flush. Game Over. Broke. So where does that leave me. Faimli obligation and heart ache, letters recieved but unrequitted by myself, have i lost the ability to care? There is about to be 1,700 miles between me and family obligation. The truth is all i want is a cigarette, but can't afford that either. Its no use. we must pick up another hand of cards and risk it all against the cheating whore that life put as the dealer. what doesn't kill you makes you stronger? We'll find out.

For the record; Camille Smith makes the best cookies I have ever tasted. Thank You Camille.

new entry coming soon...boredom has driven me out of solitude to bother the eyes of those interweb zombies

This is me, undulating everyday, inchoate being, I am change. I can say so much without speaking a word, but often mistaken in meaning or intention. Despite my constant draw to solitude, left to be unbothered by a world forever exploring its own worth, I can't help my intrigue towards the compassion I fine myself feeling for others.Sympathy smothers my soul, bleeding heart romatic who can just as easily hang himself with his own hypocracy, but this in it self is proof enough that I am indeed human. I am easily transfixed by the smallest of things that radiate off a sort of urgent beauty, screaming to be noticed, narcisticly calling for attention but often overlooked by many

As easy as it may be to take on the title of romantic, one who wishes he could carve his smile out of stone, I often find that I subject myself to unscrupulous solace. Because like many, I miss the comfort in being sad it can be the only constistancy we have to work with. A personality split in two, spur of the moment and predictably unpredictable, I can easily strandle the line of indifferance and compassion, a romantic whose foot seems to be stuck to the ground in realism. I beleive what doesn't kill you does indeed makes you stronger. I believe we can always find a way to circumvent our problems. I believe without love and compassion for others we are useless. I am me, I am change, I am a romantic at heart but finding everyday that the existential approaches to life I often read about feel more accurate. I am me, I am change, I am me, Time is change~Embrace it

One day from a distant light
And just before I stand to face my love
I'll turn around
And with a smile I'll say my goodbyes
Just one last goodbye
Goodbye.................