Not Yet.

“It’s gonna be alright honey, what’s your name?!” they half yelled in that purported scolding, direct, accusatory manner all attendants in those situations speak at you in as they frantically wheeled me on the dirty green gurney into the salvation ridden, hope filled sterile light of a cold ending. I knew I wouldn’t be gone, wasn’t my time, how I knew that escapes me, however; the demise of demise was and is daunting in the same way you have to continue to live after being diagnosed with HIV; plotting and calculated. Oh what I wouldn’t do for a warm breeze cooling me in a light curtain ocean hushed way, laid out solid on a junk filled cloud of Grandma hugs and promises to quit, but all I had was a stomach full of poison that was on strike from its duty and a charcoal smoothie lurking on the bed stand…..bleak didn’t begin to fucking cover it. I thought of you…..thought of you choking back tears that may or may have not been crocodile, who could tell, maybe me; given the proper apparatuses…you….counting…counting what? How many times the insurance ran out? Attempted suicides: that of your children, that of your wife, that of your unspoken wishes deep within but maybe not so much as to where I couldn’t see them. It would have been everything not to hear a removed Step Imposter say “This is going to be so expensive, how much longer can she keep doing this?” Loving sentiments would have been more opted for…not a beggar so I guess I get no choices. The light of day does not exist when you are basking in the continual glow of a bill paying hovel known as a doppelganger for helping people on their way to here, there, the next and the now. I never fucking pray, not going to start now. Pockets are never deep, not when it comes to these things, hell, no one would want them to be. No daughter of mine, no daughter of mine will have broken veins, fractured jaw, numerous times over, broken everything. It’s a shame, it’s always a shame ain’t it? I ripped the IVs out and went down the hall until it wasn’t blurry anymore and called TJ. He came picked me up and dropped me off at the house. No one was home. Made the call, pulled on an old Misfits shirt, brown jeans that use to pass for black that now barely passed for pants at all, Docs with duct tape holding them sort of together and made the longest 3 block walk to his house to get right with the cards that were dealt her. He opened the door swinging his cock back and forth in a Chinese New Year Dragon manner. She glanced down, opened the door, said congratulations and went upstairs. He had her set up already. She sat on the end of the bed and called out to heaven and it answered in the form of the Lion King and a fresh spoon with blue flowers on the handle. He rambled on about recent exploits and all the other shit insecure boys holler about to make the real object sit up, but she didn’t; she slumped down and asked where his slingshot was. They lobbed his Mother’s eggs into neighboring yards and chain smoked. When the eggs ran out, so did her strength and she bid her dick swinging pal farewell. Back at the temporary shelter, no one was home still. She thought about the baby she had handed away not too long ago and felt that it was wrong that she continued to breathe when part of her was ambulating about completely independent of her. Not right, ever. She wasn’t right either, not after that, even now….At best, she felt the pamphlet way at times and that put a little cut on the travesty, but not nearly enough, not enough to keep her from writing this, yeah? Peanuts only fit in your arm for so long and then they get further and further away, she knew that every day, all day. Was there, is there a quiet time in her life approaching, steady like approaching, approaching proper? She wasn’t sure, but she knew it was different, different in an unstoppable, can’t do shit about it kind of way. Sickness provides ways out sometimes, not every time and certainly not hastily, but eventually it does and this was a teetering precipice of curiosity pregnant with solace laced, incanted surety. This would be the way, this had to be; it was the only green light that had been this blaring in her entire life, well….this and that blue eyed Necromancer….brass tacks were looking more and more inviting. That charcoal seemed far but not nearly as far as her destitution of insanity; look who’s got a bone…..fight me for it and it will be the last you encounter. Trays up cunt.

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….

I know what I'm doing..

Who knew that it had to be THAT spliced and specific? She looked up from the blue and red wires from the Dodge Stratus she was trying to hotwire with some sad excuse for a running partner; surveyed the parking lot, all was well and she continued to fuck with the unfuckable. How did she get here she wondered?’ living this same scene every day, in the same way, with the same fucks every day. It pained her to admit this way of life was not working out due to her options being less than desirable on all counts, domestic and otherwise. The plunger, the needle, the bleach, the veins, the corners, the cottons, the aaahhh that followed every direct hit, coalesced into a bravery that only junk could provide, the nap, the weekend getaway that had somehow had turned into a full time expedition of every minute of every day. She knew she didn’t want this for any longer than it faded, but then the next day…….the fucking next day that would make her very form waiver in a metaphysical uncertainty that junk would be sure to answer all of her questions, but first she needed to plunge this promise deep into that vein, not that one….. that one doesn’t work anymore. She came back briefly to hear the engine turn over and see nameless #1 scoot with a haste into the passenger side door that she wish he would’ve displayed when they were on Houston earlier robbing that poor blonde with the ridiculous shoes. Nevertheless, to 110th in Spanish Harlem to dump this sack of shit, the car was going as well. Best chop shop in 5 boroughs, they had always worked with her on shit; and judging from that infinite and all too familiar chill, she was right on time. That invisible ball grabber shot that pistol in the air and she and nameless #1 headed uptown. Sitting on the Number 2 train to pick up, a urine soaked Puerto Rican jerked off two seats down and glanced at her as he finished up and came on the felt coat of the old woman sitting to his left. Poor fossil had no idea, maybe she was going to visit her grandkids and they would ask about the humanistic glob on her coat and her daughter would have to lie and later contemplate how to have yet another conversation with her Mother about the home due to things of this nature running more ramped than she would like to admit; funny how guilt covers all manner of sins, even when they quite possibly could be valid ones; guilt and sins collectively, sharing a universal conscious, that happens more often than you want to admit you know. . This masturbating Puerto Rican was just one of many city drones sent out by a supposed force to inspire her to get clean, find a better way of life, the thing was that she just didn’t give a shit and welcomed an early death, if it would have her, it had three times to be exact but had not clung to her nearly enough and led her back to the cold white sterile room and angry faces that held her insurance less charity care papers in their back pockets, yellow ones that she made paper airplanes out of and flew into no particular area of A squat. There were a lot of them, not just from her, but from everyone. She got back on the clock and made her way out of the train, into some unsuspecting Wall St’s pocket, which ultimately produced nothing but an expensive pack of French cigarettes and an inscribed zippo, which if held sentimental value wouldn’t be in this fucktard’s pocket in the first place and then finally on the final stretch to the spot, an apartment on the 8th floor of lost building that used to serve as something for certain someones but not anymore, it was a rent controlled memory of things that may or may have not happened to begin with, right now that nausea didn’t leave much room for contemplation on the matter. Longest goddamn elevator in the world, every motherfucker getting on and off except her and her seemingly publicly wanted aborted mission for junk, for the cure that would make it hush in the same way your black 2nd grade teacher made the class when they became unruly. The door, the door, where was that little day of the dead hooker with the pink hair that sat on the floor next the “door?!” Fuck, there it was, a practical fist pound typical of pigs proper, merited that exact response. I hollered it was me and the door flung open and welcomed me in like a lost Dyfus child reunited with a sick parent; not entirely off really…I slam, glided the money across the kitchen table and in return I was slid a bundle. Sweet Jesus fucking Christ, here we are…. I sat down: spoon out, cotton in, needle flick consistent until the point of entry and let’s get real….aaahhhhh…..thank you Mommy for the gift of rundown, runaway, run run run…… Walking in the rain down a black doorway ridden Soho makes for shit times when you’re passing a meeting, fuck it. They knew and so did I, but spare me your empathetic look shrouded in dismay and key tag propaganda, I was there too you know. Just gonna take a load off for a little while, I’ll be back around in the Spring and you’ll see. Me and you and lemonade and plans, plans for miles. That place in Maine, that place over there and down here and that place you…..yeah, wait till Spring baby and I’m back on that shit, back on the shit in a non-transient way but a cultivating life way, living not surviving, I promise, just this last $20 and I’ll make it back from Babylon, make it back to that pile of shit, well, you know what I mean. Plans baby, plans. I miss you in the rain and the early morning when your eyes are at their peak, you never thought so but I see you. Really see you. You won’t see me, fuck ….I don’t want you to. All in good time, baby, all in good time.

There is only ONE.

There is only ONE. I knew you. I knew you in a dream, in another hemisphere, another life, another path, one in India, one in Rwanda, one in Indonesia, in a perpetual dream state in a world that existed only in a sad lonely hard wood closet with a pink elephant and a brother whose whereabouts are still……..unknown….to ….this…..day. I knew I loved you. I knew I recognized you. Your eyes said….. Then you said….. Then I said…. and you put pen to paper, crayon to paper, etched an invisible vein, artery running through a broken form, how it doesn’t wane anymore, never again….not with this light, not this light baby….too visceral, too, too oohh wait.. I knew you in this place, a walk in the middle of….a haze curtain of junk, babies, not yours, not mine, but them that would belong to us each…a partner unfit, partners that would provide the glue for endless mistakes, couldn’t have done it without them. Couldn’t have you without them….remind me to send thank you cards in 2067… I feel you when you are not here, I know where you are always, that beacon, that rush, that vibration, that smell, that unconscious knowing of perfection for said individual only for you, tailor made, tailor made for me, for you; only two on the planet that acknowledge it, know it, feel it. Want it, would know to want it. Love of every lifetime, every…..time. I see you baby, I see you for everything. Christmas every day is a sad analogy, not even justifiable in the splendor that is encountered with you and that perfect soul; soul on fire with a strong wind to move it, we gotta go baby; places to be, places to be… I knew you and know you now, I recognize you. I knew you when, I know you now, I know that blue, that blue that scares me and makes me sit up, that look that makes me leave this plane and peek out the next, a small scope for what comes next……thank yous thank yous thank yous and them too.

Squeaky Clean Streethearts

I’ve seen you out and about in a cloud of blue electric haze accompanied by people who seek to ensconce you with a lifeless ooze of fictious ambition led by even easier led automatons. You sad, sad sack…..baby I wish I felt for you, but I don’t, not even a little. Take a little off the top and lie to me, tell me you’re trying, tell me you’re the only one to ever feel this way. Tell me baby. Tell me all that shit the oyster divers believe. The low down dirty streethearts that tear you up from the outside and never make their way in, even though maybe you wish they would a little. The sun sets on you the same as it does any of us baby. Your hard time is no harder than the nail you drive it in with. I left you sleeping in a haze of fallacy, regret and even worse awareness; that same awareness that won’t serve you because you choose to ignore it. Yeah, we all ignore it for a time….until….until that gun gets too heavy and the tears stop coming. Dry is dry. Waiting never looked as desperate as it does on you and I don’t feel for you or the sad story you cling to that isn’t yours. Acclimating to a reality that was never yours is the permeating sting of a disturbed fallout shelter of a human being, maybe even human shell. That house on the block holds no more meaning for you than it does for me now, but you choose my side instead. It’s not your to take however, so give it back or better yet absolve your inadequate tendencies to shoplift experience and make better with it and allow it to be someone who will learn. Not you, not now…. It’s a mean street you never ventured down, a leather jacket you never owned, a scar that had a different origin, make it solid, make it fuck yourself. You do every time you tell that story, I hope you know; fuck yourself that is. Are you aware of that? I know a sky opens up when a point is reached, but only for that individual, only the right time, only in pristine weather, only in dire circumstances, none of which you possess. How dare you, how dare you answer a question that hasn’t been asked, how dare you claim to have vacancy in your eyes when they are already filled with materialistic excrement found in the form of social media ridden expectations and societal norms which you so desperately cling and hope to copulate with. I wish a perpetual sour taste in your mouth, shitty gulps of reality pregnant with a harshness that will lead you to a humility only the devastated can possibly know. I know your type baby, the tight fisted, loose lipped chicken pride that struts about displaying the dissention within their own ranks and leave a trail of obvious everywhere they go, I know you baby, I spit on you damn near every day. I know your kind and I won’t take to it lightly or in any manner for that matter. Buck up runaway, I have daggers for you.

Prelude to a Nap

I knew she wasn’t what she claimed by the sad sick eyed look on her face that had leaked its way down to her veins, or more like the lack thereof. Deep open gashes that had once served as the life givers that allow oxygen to reservoir throughout like a fast tide had become the cesspool of forgotten aspirations and children she no longer felt the need to lie to and say she wanted. This was the nature of the beast, an Argentinian beast that hailed from a dilapidated town that smart minded compassion ridden nerds sought to save said girls from and never could, but would damn near die trying to no avail…..she knew the look. She knew the familiarity of these things for she had been living dogs days for as long as she could remember. Dog days made up not the years lost but the ones you counted down to the day, down to the bone down to the last abscess that would provide the last and final crater you couldn’t bring yourself to look at in the daytime, nor the fuck that made you well last night. These were all the things that were instilled instead of cookies only in the oven for no longer for 12 minutes or else they would burn, so much for those hand holding moments that would never come. But Goddamn she sure wanted them to. She held hands, just not the important ones, but the ones that would decapitate her into a mental cripple. The smell of a wanton life as almost as the smell of a successful one depending on the contextual peppering of humility coupled with an arrogance that is rooted in a fear that only junk provides. She taught her all of these things; Isabella Sarli on a bender of incestuous arson ridden soul sucking qualities that would be heard in a well over grown with prehistoric fossils; with not one but two kids intact, or juxtaposed at best. They were alive when she turned, maybe not so much when she completed the circle…. A dark blue light was better than a red one. That meant calm tranquil hotel rooms with limited fucking, red lights meant smaller 4 walled rooms with stainless steel toilets that she would kick in again and again and again.. As she shot in her own diseased corner of the ditch, she couldn’t help but think that maybe not exactly in the full moon type 2 hour long saga ridden independent film sentiments aside maybe her Mom was shooting in the same diseased ditch. Funny what we choose to make acceptable in order to feel normal and Hallmarkish, rationalize the most outrageous sort of non-sense, that’s what the 12 Step literature would tell her years later and she would recall with regret that she hadn’t taken that one to the bank and had opted out for the park instead….and we all know what happens in the park. It’s a story, not a snowflake one in the cynical sense but a story nonetheless, mine to be exact. You don’t want to hear and I don’t want to tell it, but here we are making believe that you will wash it out with the tendencies of the next day’s road rage and passive aggressive supermarket line debacles; but we both know you want really; but I’ll tell you what sugar, I’ll tell you what,……I’m gonna sleep good tonight knowing that another wish has been blown and you will have to look me in the face next time, and I’ll meet you dead on. Dead fucking on; your turn not to sleep.

The Coldest of Armchairs

Who knew this would be it? Reliving a similar and universal experience with the wrong crew on the daily? Everyone is walking on the top but not getting down or proceeding north, just a sad twirl that everyone is witnessing. It's a deep heart ache that makes your insides turn and questions every motive. How to make a sharp right turn, how to organize the damage and deal accordingly. This isn't what I wanted. This isn't it. This is something else. You seem ok, steady, even; and I am disappearing. I've seen the untouchables wade through catastrophe like water through open space but you're not that either. No, you're something else entirely. It doesn't encompass you the way it does me; I don't think you see any better than me though. Not through those sad eyes Not through this plain picture Not through these impermeable measures. I tire of walking the same " ." It seems endless and predictable resolve seems far. When has it ever not? Closed off, legless reindeer, door slamming silent agendas and top notch avoidance quotas are being met everyday with more fervor than the previous time. Tough to take, tough to keep up with, tough to choose The slap that never comes, a harsh "come to" a call to subconscious arms that commits only psychic warfare and wins without waking you, while I m not fading half as fast as I would like. This time tomorrow will be more of the same Same answer will be hanging in the air like a broken wind chime you can't bring yourself to discard and you will be too, slowly doling out fictitious spoonfuls of "contentment" while we both lye waiting. Waiting for the........