Death in the afternoon

In his original, Hemingway wrote of glorious death in the afternoon.
But you wont find it here.

Eyes loose. Loose over the shirt hanging out. Bouncing. Over the shirt loose. Bouncing the train the eyes over the shirt bouncing here there the train the car the people bouncing
                                                                 pulling out over the bridge the sun bouncing around the car the people the eyes the shirt but no one sees it no one sees it -
You wont find it here.

Hello can you hear me?
Can you hear me Can you hear me NO HE CAN'T HEAR YOU -
YOU'RE IN THE TUNNEL now, fucker.

Dark all around.

In his classic Hemingway wrote of a glorious death in the afternoon. But you wont find it here. The sun rising the whale awaking breathing in breathing breathing, breathing in all the microspasms in from the surrounding boroughs breathing in to eat to eat COOK FASTER MOTHERFUCKER!
                            IM COOKING! Grilling as fast I can, as fast as I can my hands are burning at least the meat is fresh.

The afternoon. Finally the afternoon. The death. Each day the same death. The eyes hang loose from looking at it for so long. Because in the end, we all want to die just a little bit differently.

Boredom.
        Diversified.

But you won't find that here.

Inspiration Tremble

I wrote a great blog today. In fact, it was the first one in a while I was really happy with.

Then the electricity went out.
POP.

And now I cannot bring it back. It is still in my head. I can see it. I smell it.
It's right there along with everything else.
But nothing comes out.
Nothing.

Something died there.
Just like that.
Gunshot.
POP!


People often pass me in the library or in the park and see me writing. The pen to the paper. No PDA touchpad microwave oven scribble scrabble.
Their look is somewhere between disgust and curiosity.

But more and more I'm beginning to be glad for the process. When I put it down, it's down. Down for good. If the electricity fades, so much the better.
I swim in the ink and go within my head, smelling everything, tasting everything.
It is then that the well fills up.

See you there.

Echoes

And no one showed us to the land
And no one knows the wheres or whys


In the day, in the evening, the city chokes in its own breath. The sun has set and it's past midnight. Only the echoes of the day could be heard. In those echoes we live. In those echoes we breathe.

No one showed us to the land. But we are here. We do not see it. We do not know it.
We hear only its echoes.

Somewhere there are our parents. We do not know them. We do not see them.
We hear only their echoes.

We run, circles we run around the skyscrapers we run in the playgrounds for the bored we run and we bang our fists and ask for more. The dream. Supersized.

Around the skyscrapers we run. Chasing the echoes.

Echoes of our parents' steps. Echoes of ourselves within our memories. Where are we now? What were we thinking then?

Can anyone hear me?

I hope I am making a sound.

                  sound 
                              sound
                                        sound
                                                   ...

Happiness, or something like it.

Over the rails, me and the homeless man been traveling in laps the whole night. Stop go. Stop go.

His face is round. It doesn't look homeless. He sits in the plastic subway seat in peace. Over the fuzz of his beard a few bread crumbs bounce along. I am so hungry that I want to eat them.

And he tells me get a grip on yourself man. Get a goddamn grip. So I grip myself and grip on to the seat and we keep bouncing and keep lapping and lapping the city.

And somewhere he tells me drink my poison. And I take a gulp and somewhere inside a ball of warmth rolls down through my toes. And somewhere a Dire Straits song comes on. And somewhere. I'm somewhere. There, there.

This is love and its ending one stop at a time.
This is happiness.

Or something like it.

Help

Help. There is a wolf at the door.
Over my bed he stands when I am asleep. I do not see him. I have learned to sleep with my face to the wall. But he is there. I feel the loneliness of his breath over me. I feel him watching me.

He does not harm me. He does not touch me.

In the doorway he stands. Over my bed he stands. Behind the shower curtain he stands. Behind the darkness he stands. In front of me he stands. I look down.

He does not scorn me. He does not blame me.

Help. There is a wolf in my house.
Before the sun he brings them out. I buried them so long ago. But he brings them out. He takes them out. Before the sun they come out. Before me they sit. They crowd the living room. I no longer have a place to sit. So I stand. I look down.

The wolf never travels alone.

I long for the sun. I long for the day. I long for the emptiness. I long to sit. I long to be warm.
I long for the night. I long for the wolf.
Put me inside.
Put me inside.

Help.

Untitled

in our cobblestones we lie between the cracks lie between the cobblestones I told you that you told me that I should walk farther stretch farther fly farther like a cobblestone kicked from the road knowing not where its flying only for the sake of flying kicked only for the sense of being kicked only for the sense of kicking I only wish I saw the foot I only wish I saw the boot that walked over me a thousand times walked over me only to kick me out of the cobblestone street where we meet where we sink into the mud you and me next to the curb for a thousand years you and me next to the curb I only wish I saw the boot the foot kicking the root sinking the place where we raced to the place we sank into for a thousand years me and you in cobblestones I only wish I saw the foot I only wish I saw our place a disgrace I am now not knowing where to come back to walking farther stretching farther not knowing where coming back to coming back only for the sake of stretching walking back only for the sake of walking I wish I saw the foot that kicked stones out of their roots I only wish I saw the foot of which I told you in our cobblestones we lie