You have a smile for me. Keep the one you’re flashing. I’ve seen you point and shoot. You have my smile, right? You’ve been keeping it a while.
I don’t know how you got it; I think you stole it slyly. You have a smile for me. It stretches out my cheeks. I want the one you gave me. The one that you took back.
The one that takes me back.
The one that sheds a light.
The one that keeps me sane.
The one you better have.
Last night I heard a noise.
It sounded like a seizure, wheezes and groans.
It might’ve been an overdose.
It came in through the window.
I listened to the groans.
I sat there calloused and indifferent.
Knowing it wasn’t me.
Knowing it could have been.
I was uncaring and unbudging.
Loaded with forgotten questions.
My head grows cold as I recall.
Outer layers peeled.
Last night I heard a noise.
But I didn’t care to look.
For I’m in the ugly future.
For I know the cost of caring.
You said you were going out, and you took my thoughts with you, churning in your psyche. I knew this was a bad idea.
So you stumbled home, and it burned when you kissed me. You lit a smoke, and then slouched on yourself.
As always, I absorbed you, second-handedly. I inhaled, and it did its damage, tiny legs that tickled my nape, that even prickle me now.
Later you collapsed, head bobbing, with wetness in your pants. You couldn’t take the weight. You bruised your head and broke your glasses.
I’m sad that’s all that happened.
Your appearance misleads, you dishonest carrion-feeder. You’re a vulture in a raisin suit. And they’ll rip it off you someday.
Your talons have poked through the wrinkles, flashing sickly, hungrily, wickedly. They sampled the flesh, picking cleanly, precisely cutting.
Raisins are approachable, but vultures make us snarl. So your disguise is ingenious, and we all agree. Just fly away, vulture, let the raisins be. I’ve tipped them on to you. Your eyes beam red right through.
I know what you crave, what you want. Well I’ve already decided. You’ll have none of it. You’re a cold, craven, sun-bleached thing.
There’s more to it than that, doctor. I’m afraid it’s a little more complex than you think. Life offers different people different avenues, different doorways, different outlets. And all we can do is choose the ones that make most sense.
You know it’s psychology, determinism, Maslow. But what do you know about all that? You deal with sickly flesh bags all day. You deal with the mechanics of the thing. You have no time to trouble yourself with philosophic questions, questions of motivation.
I can understand that. But don’t act like they deserve it. Everyone’s a victim in here.
Good grief, are you serious?
Those words run all through my head, each time I meet their eyes.
And I quickly look away before my features cloud.
Good grief, are you serious?
You get the ole one-eye, and I rear back my head, neck outstretched.
Then I act like everything’s normal.
And I act, and I act, and I act.
Good grief, are you serious?
What are you trying to say?
I mean I just don’t understand.
I dunno.
How did I get here again?
What am I angry about?
Sandwiched between the moon and sun, that ugly no-man’s land.
One can roll for hours, in a brain that never rests.
Slathered in condiments, such colors looking out.
The spicy details; take a bite out of this.
Sandwiched, and no place left to go.
Feel so toasted, all tore up.
Pressed together, the butt-ends, the stalest slices.
Three hours till morning; one till I’m rotten.
Sandwiched, and I’m not hungry.
I wish I could sleep, but my insides hang out.
I better get up.
I better consume myself.
I’m too sandwiched to sleep.
There is always a blessing, even when the smoke curls around your face and clings to your cheekbones.
There’s always one if you choose to see it.
It really is all about choice.
The kindergarten teachers are right.
There is always a point where you succumb.
It’s a conscious decision; you just don’t see it yet.
It doesn’t matter if it’s rational or irrational, right or wrong.
If you can’t be happy no one will be happy for you.
What did you think?
I’m always right when I’m in a rage, though everyone else would disagree.
How does that work?
It’s a new question, and it is persistent.
It keeps me looking behind my back, creased with remorse, a tainted passage.
And I feel its damage more poignantly than ever.
I once said I didn’t want purity or happiness because neither brings consciousness.
But now that I have consciousness, I need to give it back, and I am.
In return I get a fraction.
A half-felt, heartfelt fraction.
You want an adventure, the kind that busts through barriers, the kind that makes you feel alive. You want an adventure, the kind that takes a risk, a maddening urge, the thoughtless kind. You’ve always wanted one, longed for one, searched for one.
You want an adventure, one harrowing dimension, and it’d be a pleasure to provide. My sleep is impatient, a necessary break, but then I’m up again, a little cranky at first. Be quiet, be patient. Now put out your hands because here it comes. Brace yourself for impact.
I’m sorry, was it a shock? You obviously came to the right place. Never a dull moment in here. You’ll always encounter something, be dodging something, adrenaline on. So take five. Signal me when you’re ready. Try on this crown of thorns.
And at the wheel. Bunch of rambling drunks back there, but they don’t bother me. Here I go, turn-signal ready. No warning shot. They’re smushed together like rag dolls. I chuckle to myself.
Stone sober, and I feel like lead, a heavy happiness that’s in me. Driving straight again; chirping slurs accompany. I look behind into their blurry eyes, their gaping mouths, their sweating skin. I look behind and chuckle to myself.
Stone sober, and a pound of remorse. It’s fine now, I’m quiet now, just breathing evenly. I’m driving through it, to the end of the road, so you all better get out, and get out now. You don’t want what I got. I chuckle to myself.
I’m rested but tired. I’m so tired of the game, tired of the rat race, tired of the faces that tell and the dishonest brain-children. They are dishonest to themselves, first and foremost, lying about what they want, what they don’t want. And in their dishonesty, they seek to injure.
I’m tired of the judgments, of inflexible companions. I’m tired of the intolerant, the ones who never excuse, tired of low opinions, of being misunderstood. Most of all, I’m tired of my baggage, of my dead weight, of shouldering it all and receiving scraps. They all have fangs, every last one of them.
Where will my mind be in twenty years? Will I be this tired still? Or will I be able to hold my head up, to breath with ease, to sigh contentedly? Sometimes I don’t think I’ll make it that far. It feels like something terminal is in me, filling me up with dread, as carbon monoxide swells the balloon.
