Do your drugs, and sip them with lips. Stick them like a wad of tobacco between your teeth and gums. Then smash your gums hard against your teeth. Now shake and pump your head to the round techno thump. Dancing (movement that accelerates and jolts in sync with the pulse. I guess). It’s another memory worth having, yet places you further from paying car insurance on time. …. fucking hell. Back up and see the “big picture”. Rules and expectations. Who made them anyway? Nobody that danced. That’s for sure.

Blend

I love you. I crave your smile, your giddy grin. You being here distracts me. It interrupts me. I am a child around you. You can’t know this. It’s too much pressure. But, I am contented. I love you.

Glaring sun, washed out fields of sunflowers. White swirling with yellow. And, there you are, dancing. Showing off. Silence, except you. Your slow movement in silence. Am I dying slowly? I smile slowly.

We sit, in fog, on a bench. It’s cold. A bench for the bus. You lay your head against my shoulder. I touch your wet hair. Now warmth, soft comfort. Our attempt to connect. Addictive. However, we do not merge. We do not fuse. We remain alone.

You’re standing away now. You’ve become closed. I wonder. I worry. And then I anger. My fear is on the table. Bloody, black, sticky fear. Unattractive fear. Now you see my ugly part. And I’m embarrassed. I’ve hidden it. Until now. You brought out my fear. Why are you standing so far away?

We cannot fuse. We try and try and try and try. We crave it. Is this a waste, or is this an impossible craving? You left me, searching to blend with somebody. I swear it’s impossible. Remember the sunflowers? If that didn’t work, nothing could.

more canned fruit

I’m indifferent to the homeless, unless I’m asked for cigarettes. “Kill me slowly or I’ll kill you quickly.” I’m thinking of an aggressive woman. This one threatens. Also, wears dark browns (her clothes).

“Sorry, this is my last cigarette.” What if that seemingly false excuse is true? Do I deserve my gut punctured (sharp stick or pole) because everybody shares the same spineless excuse? The next time I’m confronted, I’ll use strong body language, carry a deep tone, have an unchanging focus, and maybe touch her arm. “Sorry miss, I would, but I’m honestly out.”

Quickly wash my hands afterwards; otherwise I’ll imagine an itch. That might disgust you. But, I’d probably wash my hands after touching you too.

canned fruit

Don’t read into this. Don’t read into this. Don’t stop reading, but don’t read into this. It hurts when you read into this. It confuses when you read into this. Stop counting this, you’re reading into this. Stop asking why. Stop selecting, dissecting out. Reading books and magazines. You believe you've deciphered the world and placed its truths into labeled glass jars (vacuumed canned fruit). You intend on eating it seven, nine, five years from now. You could be dead by then. Stop canning fruit. Waste of fruit. If you want something useful, start reading calculus books. Redirect time from entertainment to calculus. Then, see patterns in nature again. It has been awhile.

Which year is this?

60 kisses in April. 1 murder in May. Sex in June. A July fire. I remember the August moving to Chicago. That slow elevator in the dollar storage. Humid. I felt potential. A city potential. Open and ready. I fit nicely there.

September kisses. October loneliness. November and December merge. I self indulge now. Egocentric and bored. Egocentric and adored. Having 5 dreams and no plans. Only current money.

Which year is this?