"The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold."
“For all my love little monsters i am your mom you are my child in my hand i protect you like my eyes but don’t worry ill catch you if you fall.”
There are some, the lucky, who perceive entirely with their ears.
They hear a hero. A pop star or a politician.
They follow, no eyes, no mouth, no hands, just ears,
acting as though they were meant to hear these words,
allowing someone else to be their eyes, their mouth, their hands,
to be, for them.
This is the simplest way to be.
This is the simplest way to live.
There are some, the artists, who perceive entirely with their eyes.
They see the ocean. The sky. The mountains.
They capture, no ears, no mouth, no hands, just eyes,
acting as though they were meant to see these images,
allowing the beauty to wash over them, sans sound, sans words, sans craft,
to be, for them.
This is the most blissful way to be.
This is the most blissful way to live.
There are some, the orators, who perceive entirely with their mouths.
They claim to speak the truth. They talk, and talk, and talk.
They follow, eyes closed, ears closed, fists clenched,
acting as though they said it first, that their correctness is the most correct,
allowing others to misinterpret and dissect, so long as they heard,
to be, for them.
This is the best way to be.
This is the best way to live.
Then there are others, who perceive entirely with their hands,
They mold and push the shape of the world, they feel.
They follow, eyeless, earless, mouthless,
acting as though invention will save them from the end,
allowing the remainder of society to enjoy and bask,
to be, for them.
This is the most difficult way to be.
This is the most difficult way to live.
We all make up the world, inhabiting each others space and time,
pretending like we have the traits that the others have,
when we don’t.
We all have a place, by birth or by blight,
pretending to get along with the traits that the others have,
when we don’t.
We all sleep at night, wether we would like to or no,
pretending like we are satisfied with the beds we have made,
when we are not.
We all die some day, it’s medically and cosmically proven,
pretending that what we have accomplished is worth something,
when it is not.
None of us should be following, at all.
Heroes and oceans and speeches and clay.
We should all be doing something that resonates,
up and down the ladder of curse and class,
but the rock solid truth of the matter is that,
some of us are not.
“The receptivity of the masses is very limited, their intelligence is small, but their power of forgetting is enormous. In consequence of these facts, all effective propaganda must be limited to a very few points and must harp on these in slogans until the last member of the public understands what you want him to understand by your slogan.”
“Where do you keep going?”
She stares at me blankly, her pupils small and unfocused, looking at something that must be behind my head. Her eyebrows, the creases around her mouth, not one detail of her face is troubled. She seems to be easy, effortless, but this only increases my frustration.
“Where do you keep going?” I repeat, exactly the same inflection, no difference in my body language or tone. Deja vu. A glitch in the normal timeline that rewound me to back where I started. I can’t remember how many times I’ve asked. I keep asking.
Her body does not move at all: it is frozen. Her lips, however, slowly turn up to the harsh florescent lights and she says, barely audible, as if exhaling, “Bathroom.”
I neglect to draw attention to the fact that we have been at this nameless coffee shop (this city has had a drastic increase in the lust to be hip, and therefore many coffee shops are now unnamed, only identified by their address, like 12113 Grand, so hip) for a little less than an hour, and she has been to the bathroom six times. Each time is stranger than the former, her body is lighter than air, and she alternates between taking her phone and her purse, but never both at the same time. Not a period, not a phone call.
“Why did you ask me here?” She blurts.
I blink. I blink again. She has not said more than three words to me at a time since our arrival, not even a thank you for the whole milk latte with whip (agave, not sugar), so this condescending exclamation is far from expected.
“To talk about what happened.”
“Yes, to talk about what happened.”
“No, I mean, what happened again?”
Helplessly, I feel my face contort into an overly-aggressive shape that probably conveys more hatred and malice than I intend. I am, after all, the victim here. Not she. I think of the right words to say, how to say them, what order to place them in, what syllable sounds would splinter her the most. Words have always been her forte, not mine.
Six tear drops fall from her eyes, two from the right, four from the left. I counted, because, I just felt like I had to. She did not wipe her cheeks, or apologize, or say anything. After ten or so minutes (exactly ten minutes, I could see the pretentiously rustic and obnoxiously oversized clock from the corner of my eye), I was no longer able to discern whether the tears had actually fallen, or if it was simply my imagination. Her skin was dry, her eyes reflective, there was not one clue one way or the other. All that I could use as a fraction of a hint was my naturally mathematical brain, and the number six.
“What kind of fucking coffee is this, Foldgers?”
“Shut up!” I shush her, my voice echos, baritone bouncing off unstained beams of wood that hold up the ceiling (just way too chic, just way too hip).
Our barista (cappuccino artist? mixologist? bean aficionado? pretentious college drop-out who gives herself glorified titles to justify working at a nameless coffee shop at the age of 29?) mutters a word that starts with a ‘c’ but I guess I didn’t hear for sure. At this point, I don’t know what to do, what to say. I just stare at her and try to figure out what in the Hell she thinks she is doing.
“What the fuck, Kel?” I almost shout.
She looks up at me.
“Are you stupid?” She asks.
“‘What the fuck’ does not make sense, syntactically. Listen to the words that you are saying. You sound ignorant when you say things like that. You’re like a parrot. You’ve heard those three words used together so many times that you think its a full sentence. It doesn’t make any sense.”
I can’t stop my mouth from opening any more than she can stop herself from laughing.
“Numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers.” She whispers, a dramatic drop in tone and texture after a loud guffaw right in my face.
I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t. As she is making a joke about the way my brain processes, yes, numbers, I can’t help but realize a pattern. Numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers.
“I mean, you bring me here and purchase me a fucking latte like I’m some kind of whore, you sit across from me and count how many bowel movements I have, and you want to talk about something that happened, when nothing as happened. What are you talking about, huh? ‘What the fuck’, Greg. It’s not like I stood you up at the alter or miscarried your baby or had sex with your six-year-old brother or something. What exactly do you want to talk about? And please save yourself the embarrassment and speak in full sentences.”
“Words, words, words, words, words words!” I yell at her, little specks of spit spatter her smirk, like a Jackson Pollock post-post-modern painting with a little title card next to it reading, “Bitch.”
The barista (also maybe a painter? an illustrator? some kind of failed artist that probably begs the owner of 12113 Grand to hang her photography up in the coffee shop but always gets mocked because her ‘art’ is too dark, to grainy, to contrast-y? someone who thinks you can make a living off of slam poetry but hates rap because it’s, well, ‘rudementary’?) barks at me.
“Keep it down!”
Kel turns her head and laughs at her.
“As if we’re ruining the ambience or something. I’m resting my ass on a piece of barn wood. You charge $6.00 for a latte and can’t afford a stool?” (Kel is not a coffee snob. Kel is not a foodie. Kel could not care less if a destination was popular, or cooly unpopular, or wether or not it had a name or was called by its address. What Kel cared about, the only thing Kel cared about, was a comfortable seat and a window.)
The barista (I doubt I’ll reference her again, but for arguments sake, let’s call her something really melancholy, like Dresden or Wednesday, I mean, she has an eyebrow piercing for Christ sake) doesn’t respond to Kel’s animosity. She just stares and stares at me before adjusting back into her cozy routine of getting paid $16 an hour to type bullshit to her friends on her new iPhone.
After nineteen or so (nineteen on the dot) seconds, I am able to regain focus. Her hair is more red than normal, streaked and glossy. One of her eyes is closed more than the other by about a centimeter and she keeps rubbing her temples, she seems exhausted by me, worn out, gone.
She looks cold.
She hasn’t touched her latte.
I formulate the words in my head, trying to recall exactly what did happen that I felt was so imperative that I needed to discuss it with her right now, today, at this coffee shop which is located at but should not be referenced to as 12113 Grand. I wonder how I could possibly remember it so vividly and she seemed to have forgotten.
“Stop looking at me like that.” She says.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” She says.
“Are you even listening to me?” She says.
“You’re thinking about numbers again.” She says.
And I am. I’m thinking about a day, much like this one, not only because of the weather and because it was my only day off of work that week, but because Kel would not stop fucking talking at me. At. Not to. Asking questions she already knew the answer to. Stating facts, blithely unaware of how much I hated to just hear empty words. Words are not the same as numbers. Numbers decode sequences and patterns. They can create circles or tell time. Words, especially Kel’s, are nothing but distractions.
Distractions from numbers like road signs that read Fourth Street, Fifth Street, then Sixth Street and Grand until I became so distracted from her words that I didn’t read the word “Stop” and she flew, face first, out onto Sixth, about six feet (exactly six feet), from my comfortable passenger seat and windshield, until skidding to a halt.
And she still won’t stop talking.
“Did you hear what the barista said earlier?”
“You thought she was talking to me, didn’t you?”
“You never listen.”
“Cunt?” She laughed loudly. “No.”
“She was calling you crazy.”
“Are you listening to me? You’re fucking crazy.”
Anonymous asked: I saw this tattoo that read, "skin is boring." That person obviously doesn't know you, nor do they know me for that matter. They don't know how much one can crave another's flesh; how much I crave the smell, the taste, the feel of your flesh against my lips. Or how much that freckled flesh of yours excites me, the thought of which leaves me with a flushed face.
Is this a competition to see who can say “flesh” the most times in one paragraph? You won.
The inside of my head is Hell:
It is hot and it is pulsating with oranges and reds
not beautiful like ruby red grapefruits but darker
and menacing and malevolent and my eyes are
darting back and forth, trying to keep me alive because
if they close then, I guess, you know,
I’ll die, or, I really don’t know what will happen.
The front seat of this car is Hell:
A glass coffin that rattles and shakes with fervor,
not beautiful like Snow White’s was and without men
to carry it, it perpetuates its-self, or it should,
at the very least, and my hands are sealed to
the steering wheel not only by the melted plastic
but by my heart, too scared to just let go.
The asphalt covering this land is Hell:
a perfect symbol that requires neither a skilled writer
nor a wildly intelligent reader to find beautiful, no, this is not
what John Steinbeck wrote about, when the world
was all green and blue, something must have spilled,
this horrible, ugly grey down mountains and into oceans,
it might have been you, but it was more likely me.
These other drivers are all Hell:
changing lanes without signaling and shifting gears too rough,
no consideration to anyone else who may be replacing a CD,
or sending a text that says You’re Beautiful,
any of the unsuspecting who may be adversely affected by the
aggressiveness of their horrible driving, another symbol,
or the cheapness of their poorly-made American fucking car.
And I have never before in my life prayed,
but God or Jesus or Whoever people look to
with eyes closed and arms outstretched,
Chuck Norris or Morgan Freeman or
The Alien from the movie Alien, whoever, just please,
please, please, please, please, please, God, please,
Get Me Off This Fucking Road.
I. CANNOT. BREATHE. IN. ANTICIPATION.