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Rated: 18+ · Monologue · Biographical · #2105768
An essay in street-speak of street stuff in 3 parts
What is real, really?
Is it me? Is it this?
Are these words you're reading real?
If they're on a screen,
or printed out on paper
does that make them real?

If they tell a tale,
or act as an interpreter
for a minds-eye look
at how I feel,
are they, then, real? Are the feelings real?

Do the feelings really feel?
Do they really, truly represent
when frames of mind
are straight, or bent?

Are emotions that are felt
by anyone real?
If emotions bring forth tears
would the tears be real?

Real is a word used to describe a condition, a color of things.
It sets apart two very different conditions.
It is used to represent a concept.
When something doesn't fit into the parameters of that concept,
it is said to be unreal. Really?

It is my contention that every thing is real.
It is also my contention that nothing is a certain amount of something.
It is really no thing, so it is some thing.
If nothing is something, and every bit of every thing is some thing,
then, nothing is also real.

So, then my contention shifts
with plays on words.
If nothing is real because it is no thing,
and everything is real because every thing is real
then, my cunt tension is deinitely real.

The preceeding was in no way endorsed by this writer.
Who, then will endorse these checks?
All in good time, son.

'Drug Dreams'
It's getting passed when things get funny.
It's nearing that other time that comes.
It always hits you like a bad idea, when it first rears it's ugly face.
It's suddenly dawned on you that it's really not going home with you;
because you know, now, it's just another drug dream. A string of dreams
that came at every approaching 6am. You woke up, lying still asleep.
You tossed and turned to make sure. There was no mistake. That big fat sack you'd tried so hard to protect and conceal and do
everything right not to get busted with was not in that right-front pocket because you were asleep and you don't even wear pants when you sleep.
It had become a constant condition. It never seemed to wane. It only got more serious, more intense with the story lines.
Unraveling among the goulash of thousands of drug deals. Daily activities in your 20's and 30's and 40's,
regretting the time you spent weaving peoples needs with other peoples goods, and always having the feeling that
something was about to go down. Each time cerebral costs were paid-for out of empty-wallet brains. Empty wallets were
curiously, still, so fat.

'Fat Wallets'
Wallets fat with business cards, portrait plastics, buddy's casino card, Gift cards that still had $2.24 left on them
long-expired, if still in business. Super Lotto quick picks and play sheets, probably never checked and you meant to soon, so you could quit carrying it around.
It makes your wallet so big. Wait, there's that phone number I needed, and looked for, but never found. I didn't think to look in my wallet. I hate pulling out that
thing, it's a mess. Way behind and under many things you see the color of money and you fall for it every time. Your heart races and you recognize the Ben Franklin color and almost
dejavu like, you sink back down to the familiar realm of dissappointedness. It's one of those business cards that's like a folded bill that you put back in your wallet, between somethings,
and under others, so you won't be fooled again soon, by that tricky thing.

'Fat Wallet Letters'
When will I need this? I ask myself holding a letter I wrote to a chick I knew, who broke my heart, and she would sure
be sorry when she reads it, because I worded stuff that made her out to be so hurtfull and a bad person; to a person, me, she'd victimized by treating so unfairly. She'd said she would do certain things,
and not do certain things with other people. Then, her car was parked in front of his house. She lied about it but I know for sure it was there because I'd parked down the street. I couldn't tell her that, though. I told her
when I met her that I would never stalk her. So after she lied that other time when I could see her living room light come on, then 30 minutes later the light was flipped off. I watched for another hour and the light
never came back on. Her car was there. So was his. I'm pretty sure he doesn't know anybody else at those apartments. It was parked in a tenants spot. It was a spot where there was no tenant and people who had friends
come over would tell them they could park there because no one lives there. She told me that the first time I went there to visit because she'd called and said she wished she had a glass of wine. She told me where to buy a whole
box of wine that was in a plastic bag and has a little tap-thing on it. So, I brought over a box of wine and she said I was dumb for getting that one. If I would have looked, they keep a couple next to the beers so they would be cold.
I stayed there in her apartment with her for 4 days. On the 3rd night someone (her x) came and knocked on the door and after he wouldn't go away, she opened the door and they had an argument. I listened from the kitchen, where I sat and smoked
and butts were heaping and spilling out of a 10" glass ashtray. I heard her tell him that I was here. I learned how sometimes girls will tell the truth if you ask a question like you already know the answer. They think it's a test and they want to
show you how they're not a liar. Then, because you made them tell you, they don't hold back and they make sure it hurts to hear it, in hopes that you'll quit asking stuff. After about 5 minutes, he left, calmly and didn't come back ever. She came back in the kitchen and lit another
of my cigarettes up and pulled the sliding tap-thing on the wine that was facing you, up top when you opened up her fridge. She looked like she was hurting when she explained to me the things she had been through with this guy. How she'd loved him, but he'd hit her. She told me that he's
hurting right now. He's hurting knowing she was in here with me and that she didn't want to see him. After she told me how he was hurting because we were in her apartment, late at night, she had a long jersey nightee on and he might have guessed she didn't have panties underneath. He asked why
my car had been here for two days. He said it was here for the whole day. He knew it hadn't been moved because he saw how the tire was. He was hurting right now, she told me, and tears were welling up in her eyes and she began telling me off about how he made her mad and how he made her hurt him right now.
After she'd cried and yelled and cried and laughed and cried and told me how stupid I was because she was 26 and I was only 22. He was 34. He was her coke dealer. I always thought he was pretty cool. She knew it was him when the phone rang 2 hours later, but by then we were back on the mattress that she pulled off her
bed and dragged through the door and laid it down flat, in front of her 26" B&W television. There weren't sheets, but there was a comforter that was stirred up with some beach towels, which sometimes were dry and sometimes were sweaty and empty pizza boxes were lying next to the mattress that kept gettin stepped on and squishing
the single 1/2 pizza slice and 3 crusts that rermained in that box. The other box had some pieces in it but I don't know how old it was because that box was already there in the fridge with nothing else except a completely scraped jar of low-fat mayo which was in the door. We had to pull out the pizza box to put the wine there. She'd opened it and took out a slice, closed it back up and just sat there chewing it but never offered me a piece. I wasn't very hungry. Back then I went for days without eating and sleeping when the shit was good. She figured I wasn't hungry because I did a line when she asked me to give her one. When I was out I left to go and get and then I'd cruise back by and see if her light was on and if her car was there. I would have just called her but she never answers the phone, even when I'm there. It's weird. It's like she doesn't want that person to know she's home or that I'm there, or something. I don't get it. I'm pretty sure she's the one. I hope so. She'll see in time. We're a perfect match. She'll see this letter and read it and realize how wrong she was and she'll call me out of the blue. They always do. Sometimes years go by, but they call. They always usually call. Almost all of them, usually.--------end

© Copyright 2016 Jim Marx (44nneedit at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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