If February Wore a Jean Jacket, She Would Look a Lot like Joey Lawrence.

I very often let a piece of paper slide off my forked tongue like a train wreck in a silent December haze. I’ve been up all night looking for a bomb shelter in Nevada. A chorus line of the down-trodden hang out up the street near a gun store on Tuesdays. They’re just waiting for a revolution, or a tire iron to fix their spare.

Chinaski finally opened the safe last week, but the whole time we knew it was empty.

The moment I set my eyes on it, the page is no longer a blank.

So let’s for a moment imagine that there is a chemical compound that allows an individual’s consciousness to travel through time… Sure sounds like a fun story to write.  If you ingest the compound your physical body enters into a dream state and you awake in the same body that you existed in, in that previous point in time. Meaning you can only go back to a time when you were alive. Wait… This doesn’t make any sense.  Reader beware…

The more that I change, the more change that is created around me. The funnier I am, the more fun I have. The more that I move, the more that I see everyone else moving, and the more I give myself to the page, the more the page gives to me. Sitting with the infinite language of life, and a bergamot candle, and a glass of red, and a television on mute. I stretch my eyes over new forms of awareness; new forms of acceptance continue to cross over my eyes.

        Good morning to you my dear. Echoes of your dreams skate through my lungs, the coffee ticks, the bread and eggs cook. The unmistakable sun washes over my body, and I shower in the hopeful rays of summer. This kitchen hums in beauty.

I can’t turn it off dude. I can’t take a pass. I have tried to stop thinking, I have tried to stop writing it down. I have tried to listen to ghosts, I have tried to pay for your cab ride home. I have tried, and I have found that He was right. Chinaski tore the picture of America in half. Hank turned the hipsters into martyrs of poetry. And I’m just going to ride it out. I will sit here and decide to open either the fridge or the panty.

This time of year always reminds me of the old times. My eyes now are taken back to my old bedroom. Covered in Christmas lights and movie posters, moments that lasted all night in the silence. The sweat of darkness and love, loss and discovery, the internal pangs of truth continue to wash over my heart. I can still picture the red hyperbolic chamber of yore (searching for balance in an adolescent mind.) My artificial womb has proven to be helpful in strengthening my own personified identity.

I have been starting fires from the edge of forest leaves. Digging ditches from within the crystal scars of my bleached bones. I’ve been taking time out of the sky, trading my home for a different pair of eyes.

I’ve held my hands in front of my heart for twenty nine years now, and I’m starting to lose feeling. I’m starting fires with a broken match. In a spiral of memories, I’m trying to catch the end of a shark tooth, trying to place all my echoes just outside of the suit.   When I look at myself in the mirror I see myself. But I can never really see myself. I see myself, but I can never turn away quick enough to see anything but myself.

Keep going, get ready! Are you following the road?  Another picture perfect mindset created in the silk silence of meditation.

Forest fire on mute, I am watching everything except for the sound. I’ve lit flames upon my shoulders and hounds. I’m searching for reason, not selling amends! Crawling backwards up a set of oak stairs, I’m blind to all things in need of repair. Throwing away the pig roast, turning my guilt into black ghosts.

I’ve recently shredded a ribbon of skin, I’ve eaten my pound of flesh, I’ve deceived even the very best. As a blue flame draws, I cut a line of ink with baking soda. I sink into the mine fields and rest in the tattered canopy of cotton beds. I followed the line of red and black, and it was longer than the scars set upon my back.

What is it that I cling to in the early dawn? Is it the air, or the fact that most everyone else is sleeping? Is the cool innocent air the only voice that sits with me now? I suppose it would be time to stop asking questions and simply let it all unfold. I stare at the lack of traffic from my kitchen; the bloom of spring expands out in a hurricane of light and warmth. It wants to rain, but something is holding it back, something is holding it back…

I sent two birds uphill
with the wind in their
feathers.

                I took two picture frames
from the mantle of your
grandfather’s fireplace.

                I’m sorry about that, I’ll
be sure to replace them
someday.

                It’s a forest-orange reflection that bounces back to my eyes from the glass and concrete. The mutants that live within me are lured by color and noise. East of no west. That is where it spins, on its side, as if the soup kitchen went out to lunch. The juries verdict came in late, and we knew from the start that the prosecution was weak. But the judge had a nice pair of shoes, so we hung around a little while longer.

It doesn’t end man. At least as long as we’re breathing and eating! As long as the dice are rolling and the ladies are singing. I had nice bowl of soup this afternoon, and an everything-bagel around eight this morning. But that is it man. And people ask me, “How do you stay so thin?” “Oh my gosh you’re so skinny, how do you do it?!”

“It’s pretty easy dude, just don’t eat a lot of food.”

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