Could be a Poodle or a Puerto Rican

As every flake fell to the ground, so did her low expectations of what life had previously feigned to provide, dare she say, “offer.” It would be Spring soon and she knew the winds would change along with motives, agendas and ambitions, not just others, but her own as well. All she could mantra was “it’s about fucking time.” A long hard line had been drawn for a long time, from the lower east side all the way to Central America, across Europe and back to the U.S. this junk inspired runaway had fit the bill and set the bar for a lifetime of drunk spins that would only calm when the cylinder window was bubble free. No more, no more of that brown powder promise or the stripper pimp relationship it held over her head. It dawned on her as she watched the snow in the street light that had become her favorite sense of comfort when at a certain juncture, in a certain place, with a certain human being that this warm envelopment may have a shelf life longer than she previously had anticipated and that that very unconscious overall sentiment may just be the real fucking deal, nothing made her more….everything; scared, elated, sick, grateful, thankful, wary, thoughtful, hopeful or set; in every sense of the word. The sarcasm that had carried her and provided a dental dam of sorts with the wrongs, rights, greasers and socies, had also became a little engrained in her as the stuff her character was compiled of, none of which she wanted to rid herself of, however one human being appreciated it and she was amazed. As she sat in her truck with this Necromancer, she began to laugh and giggle like a 6 year old on Pixie Stix and when he asked what, she replied that “it’s a poodle, not a Puerto Rican.” In front of the truck was parked an SUV which contents held what could have passed for a large black poodle or a Puerto Rican, in this case it was a poodle. They both laughed and she was not reprimanded but joined in the moment. Relief and elevation embracing in an unconditional love she had never been privy to, there were always conditions; always. Maybe this was no substitute for the junk, dicks, pussies, clothes, power, and arrogance, but a path, a path not out of anything but deep into a realm only heard about and rarely experienced; the snow didn’t not equate to what the news had said, but it was early yet. A long skinny street could look ridden with the stuff, given the right light, you hear me? It all came to a non-lull, if anything it intensified, futures were known without speaking about them, love was expressed openly and she thought less and less about the night in the park, the closet and in the now burned down shack at the end of the narrow, long driveway that used to hold her. Substitute no, working sense of euphoria and mysticism in place; however denial was far away, due to it not having a need……not anymore anyway. She missed smoking at times to really delve into the contemplation of it all she believed a cigarette could convey and maybe did at one point to her, but now the taste was a bummer, lucky for her (girl upkeep is expensive business.) An open hush among the carnival led to greater, bigger and more potentially combustible things, but wow, what a fucking prize, yeah? Big light eyes looked back in her big dark ones for once and saw her, really saw her, she knew it because she didn’t look away, and neither did the human being. Just one more, open that arm, make it a nice farewell, a voyage it accompanied by a cloud of low sailing cumulus nods……come on baby, I ‘ve held you this long….it always made itself available to her when she was doing her best…..it would never give up and she knew it but this time, it was ok. She welcomed that shadow and knew it to be part of her and the essence she had developed only been as a direct result of having held and dealt with it for the majority of her life and she knew what it held, the answer and detriment to everything. A spoon always holds a reflection, understand? The street was littered with wet red and green reflections of broken lights that seem to never sleep as she shuffled over to the tracks, to cross them, not dig into them. A waitress asked her how she didn’t fall down in those shoes; she didn’t own practical shoes; only what the fuck ones and was content on being the douche who would wear heels with pajamas. After junk, everything is seen as a fucking accomplishment isn’t it? Even this Barbie shit…the difference this time was that after she crossed the tracks there was a hand being extended to her and this time she accepted; the light eyes found her and she squeezed this human being’s hand and moved on. Way on….