Monotony – A Story – Part 2

Do you feel the monotony? Can you hear the annoying scrape of my feet dragging themselves to the bathroom? The stabbing numbness of my slowly adjusting eyes as I try in vain to shield them from the blinding solar glare of the bathroom light? Or how about the pungently aromatic stale air produced by 8 hours of backed up bowels? I stood at the toilet, graciously releasing at least four hours-worth of slightly yellow urine, and let out a long bear growl of relief. One of the few breaths of relief that I get to look forward to over the coming day. Feel that monotony as I clamber into the shower, only to realize that I forgot to buy soap and toothpaste? Ever wash a tired body with dish soap? Feel the monotony.

The sky that day was a deep overcast grey, with thick, overfed clouds spewing their liquid lunch all over the city, making for a slow and sloppy morning commute. I arrived at my gig thirty minutes late (not giving half a shit), and slowly crept into a parking space. It was a lonely, bleak, deserted lot, strewn with unattractively enterprising weeds tangoing out of deep cracks that resembled California fault lines, and year old garbage bleached bone white by a harsh sun. I carelessly swerved into a parking space, which I created myself due to the fading of the yellow dividing lines. It’s a sight you would have expected to see in the former Soviet Union, not twenty first century USA; an aged, crudely built exterior, its walls cleverly stained brown by the rust that rained down from the aluminum roof. It reminded me of coffee stained dentures, or a distasteful hotel room watercolor.

3-30-15

Meet me where the blue sky ends,
where the tree line tumbles into the arms
of tomorrow-
meet me where the citrus sun kisses the
earth on its slow retreat,
the blue place where the moon yawns and
rises each night from its slumber-
meet me at the point of imagination,
the spot where wonder blends with
awe,
where there is no beginning,
no end…
meet me at the point where all things
are possible,
those beautiful coordinates that
tie all paths together-
lose yourself with me on those roads-
meet me where the sky ends…
walk beside me on that trail,
and let us tumble together into the
arms of tomorrow*

3-26-15

Where are you, he asked into the
rain, crashing against him like a thousand
liquid stones-
where are you, he whispered into the night as
his words deftly weaved through the droplets,
cascading down like threads of crystal yarn-
his words met her mouth like a tempest,
words heaved heavily into the air, words that
crept as gently as frozen December breath-
she was lost, he realized
as she pressed close–
run to me when you are lost, he said, and
I will be your beacon in the night,
your end point, and your
starting line-
run to me when the world dilutes your
spirit,
and I will shield you from the storm…
yet stand with you in the rain*

Monotony – A Story – Part 1

It was a cold, black morning. The weatherman had predicted warm and sunny days all week, but in typical weatherman fashion, he was highly mistaken. Don’t they get paid to make educated guesses? Why can’t I get paid to assume? My eyes opened to a not-so-welcoming blast of crunchy, static laden 80’s rock on the dusty alarm clock; loud music to begin with, but even louder since I’d decided to crank the damn volume up to the max the night before in an attempt to jolt my tired ass up. It was a piercing, deafening roar that uncomfortably jarred me from an uncharacteristically pleasing deep sleep, a sleep chock full of unrealistic oddities and meaningless mystical journeys, coupled with beautiful damsels and angry zombies. I was running from them all for some strange reason.

It was hard to pry my eyes open that morning; it felt as though they’d been buffed to a high sheen with extra grain sand paper. Someone must have felt that my tongue needed a good sanding too, because it was as dry as the bottom of a homeless man’s feet, and tasted the part full on. Maybe it was the spirit of last night’s frozen .99 cent meatloaf special come back to haunt me. I roared a massive sigh, and shifted a bit to get comfortable; I lay sprawled out wide on my back, the dim blue light of the alarm clock illuminating my tiny, disheveled room. My eyes lazily floated about in the shadowy light, and I felt disgusted; not at the wretched taste that was eating my mouth, but the fact that my microscopic room, and world for that matter, amounted to the value of a dilapidated shit house.

3-24-15

She found him there, lost within the
shadow of himself,
stolen by the gaze of his unrelenting sun-
she mended his wilted petals, and sheltered
him from the ruddy embrace of his drought…
she was the sip that he’d never tasted,
the wine that he’d been too afraid to drink*

3-23-15

The old man lay there, nearly unconscious,
awake, but absorbing the sounds and emotions
spent nearby-
a failure to thrive, they said it was,
a failure to adapt,
a failure to grow,
to reinvent-
he always felt as if he’d walked along the beach
wearing dense rubber boots,
so close to beauty but unable to touch it-
so close…yet just out of reach-
he felt the minutes slip away into the
vastness of eternity,
tick by tick, just as they’d always gone,
and he felt sleepy…
tired,
threadbare-
he lay there…conscious but unconscious,
present, but absent,
one foot planted in this world, and yet one
stepping into the next,
he lay there alone with his thoughts,
without the strength to don his mask once more-
he breathed deeply, quietly, awake but absorbing the sounds
and emotions spent nearby,
and with silent eyes watched as the dawn absorbed the stars,
until the blue made way for the reds and yellows
and greens of the new-
a failure to thrive, they said it was,
to adapt, to grow, to reinvent-
the smell of the ocean crept in like a vine
and clung to him then..
how he longed to walk along the beach without his boots,
sand beneath his feet and the cool waves crashing against his skin…
the smell of the ocean crept in and clung to him,
as did a buoyant hope and promise that his
failure to thrive would be enveloped by his strength
to overcome*