I'm nowhere near home

Oh man. It's not a statement I use often. It's more of a last resort, an all or nothing kind of call. Oh man. And thinking back on it now, I realize that there wasn't much danger at all. I mean sure the cops were crawling all over the inside of the house, and the Dj had no fucking clue 'cause no one bothered tearing him out of that trance he was in. But the situation really wasn't out of hand. It was the first time I wasn't breaking the law at a party; no grass, no pills of any sort, nothing. I was free and clear this time.

It isn't like me to lose my cool in a bad situation. I mean for fucks sake I watched my mother die, and even then my head was right where it should have been. I have a knack for it, though it's more of a burden than anything else. But this isn't the point at all. We made our way through the house. We... right, hang on. There were two of us: myself and this young, devil-eyed, girl. She would twirl her body around these magnificently blinding lights just fast enough so that you couldn't tell either apart. No one there could ever be her. I dragged her through the mess of stale beer and washed up users who never left the scene. It had nothing to do with running, or getting the best of the party. I had a better place for us to be; the crowd really sold it for me.

It's my nature, trouble. I don't ask for it and I certainly don't start it, yet it always seems to find its way back to me. The police seem to know I'm an easy target. They didn't even hesitate.

"ID..."

"Sure."

"...and get rid of the cup."

"Officer I'm legal to drink."

"Did you buy that?"

"Nope."

"Can you drive?"

"Sure."

I don't know where her head goes. I don't know why it even leaves at all, but every now and again she lets the world know that she still exists...

Cont...

Cerulean&Green

"...'Recession Central' my god it's all you hear about now. I mean you get these bullshit commercials about saving two-hundred bucks by driving eight miles out of your way to the largest Wallmart in a three town area because they sell the giant SAVE 30% size. It's hopeless, the whole thing is a hopeless disaster. But forget it. Don't even think about it, you wanna know why? Here's why: Jesus Christ has come again...only this time he's a 40something year old black guy. Get that. Well I say it's a good thing. We need change. We need change now, otherwise our economy is going to wind up swallowing us while it attempts suicide. Okay. Wow. Alright, that was...yes! Thanks for calling. okay we're gonna take more calls in a bit. Don't flip the channel."

"You want me to turn this off?"

"Yea, I'm done watching."

"Hey,"

"..."

"Come here."

Mine and Mine Alone

The snow comes quickly in this city. It blows in, over the mountains, and sits in the valley while we all wait for the sun to pardon us. We've all been cruel and we've all walked along the park. It's the nature of this place. I used to look around, on a snowy day like this, and try to figure out how all these people find the time to enjoy it. I'm sure some do: the women, the children, maybe even someone's father. Sometimes, when I'm just wandering, I'll see whole families in the park just playing with the snow. It calms me, oddly. There's something tranquil, and serene, about it that I refuse to question. I would never want to ruin it for myself. Sometimes the entire family doesn't make it out, though. I can always tell when people are missing from the picture, because the ones that are there act as if the others are too. But they often aren't. 

A man stood in the middle of a snow-blanketed field in the park. He wasn't wearing much, but he seemed to be alright. His eyes were fixed on the glimmer that shot off the dusting and his hands were settled in his pockets. He looked reposed; at ease. He only glanced up at me once and, with that, pulled a gun from his pocket. He blew his head off, ruining the untouched snow.

And again it rains in this fair city

Living Space

I remember it better than I expected. To be honest I'm surprised I remember anything at all. The walls were dripping and the chair I was in wrapped its legs around me and took off like a rocket ship. The dust on the floor filled the room, creating dunes and waves that cast shadows over the worn down molding that met the wall at the floor. I know I was there. I have all the proof I need. There were others with me, and they were all locked in this room as well. I remember trying to escape; clawing at the door and ripping through the walls. But we had no choice. A few others tried to enjoy the ride, sitting off in corners playing with their fingers, or with a piece of broken glass. They were the smarter ones. They found a way to pass time without having to bother with everyone else. I envied them. I still do.

It always comes back to a girl. I don't have to make sense of the lead peeling off the walls or the rust that eats right through both the table and your overwhelming humility. I don't have to make sense of it if I don't want to. That's something you will have to do on your own, friend. I remember, once, she spun that globe on the table. It didn't stop until the axis busted and it rolled off the table. She spun the world too fast; too hard. I would have caught it, the world, but I didn't care enough. I wanted to see it shatter. I wanted to watch it explode into so many pieces that it would never be whole again. All it did was bounce. I remember this vividly. Just as well as I remember when we moved in.

Sun Sun Sun

I haven't seen the sun rise in a long long time. It's not as bright as I remember.

Sway With Me

It's not the trains that turn me to the late night Arabs. It's the thought of dealing with the 3 AM scum that does it for me; the thought of having to sift through my own free thinking just to find a distraction. I'd rather turn to the Arabs than bother with trains. So I do.

I've lived here a long time, and I frequently find myself in the back seat. The driver drives, the meter ticks, and I sit back and go home. They're all pretty simple, except this one:

"Party cab, jump in my friend!" I didn't say anything. I was in no mood. "Where you going my friend?" He sounded so excited, like he hadn't had a fare all night.

"96 and Columbus."

"Right away!" He sized me up in the rearview mirror, making sure I wasn't going to rip him off. "This is happy cab. No problems here. I wish you good health, and happiness! Live good life! No stress!"

"Ha, I wish it were that easy."

"My friend, you must try! Not just think."

"Okay, I'll give it a shot." I threw on a fake smile. He read right through it.

"You are in love!"

"... are you asking me?"

"No! You are! I can see! In eyes!"

"Hmm.. I might be, I don't know yet."

"Ah, you do know, you don't want to know, but you are!"

"Haha! Yea man, I am."

"So then no stress! No trouble! Happy cab!" He turned the stereo up. It turns out Phil Collins has a way with awkward situations. He glanced back every now and again, making sure I had that plastic smile glued on well enough. Sure as shit it was there. 

"My friend, you are in love and you are scared, yes?"

"It's complicated."

"No! No complicates! Philip Collin will help!" and he turned the stereo back up. The cabbie knew me better than I was comfortable with. He called me out on all my fears and questioned their integrity. He proved me wrong on all accounts, and forced me to rethink everything I thought I knew; everything I wanted to be true. I just have to turn to the Arabs.

The glare ripped through the camera lens and shattered the capturing eye. It tore the mechanics and machines in half and fired right back out, but the shot still came out. And just like that, this tree was made eternal. 

State Lines

This country feels industrious when you truck through it burning forty pounds of coal at every state line. The brutal bumping that the tracks force on you helps to forget that people don't build them anymore. It helps you wonder; helps your mind stroll down unknown paths and peek around dark corners. The scotch and rocks remind you that, even then, people needed something to forget their world, their country, while they pounded spikes through solid blocks of steel and wood. The scotch is only scotch though, it'll never wipe your head clean of all the things you've attached your name to. An old friend will sit and pass the time with you, forgetting that they, too, are old and still curious. But your friend will not understand the drinks you take because he has yet to see the mountainside; the winding miles of rock and sand that lead you back to where you may have come from, or farther away than you have ever been. 

Industry. Industry is what gave us this. Sweat and iron raging against broken wood and a fresh slice of earth while the sun rips holes through the fields of dead grass and wasted sand. 'Course, that was then. So you brought your scotch, and your friend has passed, and the rocks still float to the top. I don't know if the mountains wind anymore, but this necktie sure looks nice.