czech mate.

please, monopolize me.
wishing I could stop reminiscing,
concentrating
thinking about, the mystery.


If I had the money, I'd visit a place as good as his.

face.

less can be, more.
hiding, from you,
what I'd rather not show,
this year.

you were my god, in high school.

galvanize.

l o v e

missing my bike, missing my russ, missing peamale bacon, missing education, missing warmth, missing a decent place to dance, missing 
a lack of christmas.

It's, not even Christmas.

at least I've got a home, the wife & child down below, cooking three square meals that always seem to smell similar.
she must use the same spices each time she prepares a dish.
I dine with the walls, I get crumbs in the bed.
I dress.


They're pushing her to have children.
She appears to be accustom to the pressure.
It seems especially heavy around Christmas, and as the youngest in the room, with no thoughts of family in mind,
I can empathize.

Everyone is in a festive sweater.  I am in my usual black, my usual dress.

I cast my usual wide gaze and keep my usually closed mouth, closed.

They veer away from baring children and switch to a lighter conversation piece.  Avant-Garde galleries through out Chelsea, artists I wouldn't know, places I've never been.

Warm and inviting as these strangers seem, I am odd.

I sip Pumpkin Ale and steal Salmon Maki while they speak of things I couldn't bother to be concerned with, though I should take interest,

I am treated as family.

They know nothing of me, I am content with aloof.

I drink with the walls, heat from these bodies keeping me aware that I am surrounded by personalities in this room,

stories I'll hear, opinions I'll argue,

but unresponsive, comatose with a sappy smile, I'll stay.

Like this, as the evening wears on,

and some snob devours my pretzel,

I wonder, if I'm even clever enough for these walls.

I can hear them snicker.

scrimmage

'I can only feel the blood in my veins when I'm drinking, and the air in my lungs when it's below freezing'

Typical, as the lonely hearted, extraverted, twenty something, lost-cause, could cry, simply to explain herself.  

All this information she's been trying to digest, obtained from the daily bread she's pretending to feed on, is just there to sop up the wine she'll drink at night.

If she could reference a film she'd watched, made in the early 40's, innovative for it's style, directed by Hitchcock, then she'd be set, without education.

lack of focus on the New York Times Headlines, reading every other sentence in every other article to highlight interest, except she won't retain blatant connotation.

she'll exist in coffee hubs and solid black leather boots through the winter, as though she were you, or her, or even the girl of his dreams.

she isn't sexy. but she'll devour all the sexual implication you toss in her direction.

as cold as her heart seems, she'll rock your cradle to sleep.

then wonder, ponder, how her brain could possibly retain, any additional information,

when all she worries about is how she'll sleep.

Although all can be accomplished in a day, all can be desired in a week,

she can't pick a year to be satisfied with what's current, existing.

 She'll pretend to suffer, pretending, she knows what life could offer,

even, when, this could be,  just fine.