12.05.2011

Almost Halfway There

Let me know what you think of this, it's a section of a story I'm writing. Feedback? Leave a comment anyways....



Dusk and dawn dusk and dawn, splintered scattered clouds across an orange-caked freeway/sky. the vacant air, the fog of clouds wrenched around houses and in between scars. the early musk of buzzing cars swarming shallowed by the night.

sundown beat up old nothing stars, the vapid expressionless stars, unlit dreams caught in dreamcatchers scratching the small of your back, eating through to sacred thoughts

Then there I am, abounded through the cities, scattered through couches, lost in the greeting card world of order, listening to Aqua Nebula Oscillator on the stereo blast out to fill the already smoke-filled living room of disparaging equity.

Smoking again, its getting late, there’s no one at the door, it’s hot outside, and the shades are down. The air is h-u-m-i-d, rice-sized globules of air floating amongst the smoke and music. My living room, and days pass by my window.

Over June’s west wind
Autum’s red sky approaches
Unbeknownst to me

The globules dissipate as dusk rears its ugly head, the stars sounding so condescending in their silence, each forefather of you glaring with hollow eyes.
Then I leave the place, asking passersby for cigarettes with empty ashtray hands, hunched with smirkingly extinguishable sniggle. 

“Where did the night go?”

I see this written on the inside of a notebook I found in a public restroom,
“Did you take it away? Did you hide it somewhere?”


“Where did the night go?/Should go to sleep now/
And say fuck a job and money/Because I spend it all on unlined paper and can't get past/ Dear Baby, how are you?”

My eyes stir in the night, my sensors flaring at the bulby neon-printed flashlights screaming OPEN! I wanted to stay inside tonight, and waste it smoking, drinking. the stars break from their nighttime prejudices, I walk around the streets, seeing friends, smiling and smiling. Hiding with everyone else in secret sooted chambers of the psyche, adrift.

I walk, cross-legged, side-stepping out of random doors, random shops, insane owners yelling profanities, asleep in the collective conscious. I smell the ladies perfumeries bleeding beet pollen out exhaust pipes of forgotten mystery.
Almost asleep on a bench in a park, seemingly blocks away from my apartment doorknob, the cityscape a swollen lincoln log cabin reaching for those same stars who utter unspoken profane bellows from parking lot puddles.

Alone in the meanderousness of it all.

The feeling of licking on your fingertips, as the solid slurp of unconsciousness envelops the mind.

Asleep 

4 comments:

  1. this literally blew my mind. keep up the good work! and it smells like Kerouac : )

    - Kaitlin

    ReplyDelete
  2. I think that you are using too complicated words for the poor french girl that I am! But sounds very good!

    ReplyDelete