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 |  a journal in short bursts that might occasionally even rhyme |
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I am not much for journal keeping. So consider this less a recitation of daily life and more of an attempt to capture a mood, or moment, as it strikes my fancy. For the easily offended, I should add the disclaimer that there is a fair amount of profanity, sex and/or politics. The words are stuck, lodged uncomfortably between hands that don't touch and the rush of cold air ghosting between lips that won't kiss A stuttering cough to dislodge them, wet and shiny with the mucous secretion of heartache, and they tumble forth, end over end, before you |
It was the finale and not what came before – a rundown grind-house theatre, a double creature feature. It matters little that I knew the score – a jewel-bedecked princess in tricked-out ghetto excess. Our bodies meet in the backseat and love flows between us like honey sticky sweet from dusk to dawn. A vision of you and me, fantasies of us. A light in the abyss, a shimmer in the mist an ache across the receding shore, soft and low; from your smiles my hope is born. You whisper words that I adorn with one hundred one thousand one million meanings more. ‘I’ll see you again same time next week?’ A wayward tear trails down my cheek. But I nod. Unable to speak I smile because I must – a goodwill gesture, a sign of trust. A voice announces, ‘Next time, Blast from the Past.’ The theater shutters, the lights flutter and money changes hands with little fuss. |
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