Red face, shaky hands
Too many screwdrivers
Can throw a wrench into the best of plans
It’ll take a lot to fix this mechanic
But with a little elbow grease
And something to eat
He’ll be running like new
Just you see

Grease
Wagon
Paper cups,
Hot chips and sauce;
Sticky fingers dip in for just one more...

o mechanical world
we are the grease
to your machines
that hold you
for "ease" of "living"

how does one manage life
with great difficulty
we beings, are just being
but are we beings, truly living
in this world where the self
is not who we really are
but who they want us to be

-Kaya

A well-rehearsed dance,
the waltzing waitress tosses The Times
on table 1 as if she’ll actually finish
the Sunday crossword this morning.
She won’t.

Grease lined lights flicker on one
by one.
Like spotlights on a stage.
It’s show time.

Twostepping while taking down chairs,
she flows to the rhythm of ritual,
across a worn checkered dancefloor.
No applause.

In a dining room of Astaire’s and Rogers
she is the coffee choreographer.  
Pirouetting to the ***,
then a sidestep, quick! Quick!
Slow.

Warming up now, she stretches.
Switching on the metal machinery.
It grinds and growls as if it prefers
decaf.

Rings from rusted bells
hanging from the door chime
to the beat. This is her
cue.

Another graduating class headed to another Grease themed party
Where another girl will have a revelation and meet the T Bird of her dreams.
Another plethora of pink ladies jackets and James Dean boys
Where another me and you will dance again.

Another life, much like my own where a popular boy cares
Where for a split second it doesn't matter how many people know you.
Another night, much like that night where you'll be worlds away again
Where I'll stay up all night thinking and falling in love.

Another girl is doing this right now.
She's at home, late at night dreaming of him.
He probably doesn't know or care too much.
She doesn't quite know what it is that she wants but she knows that he fits in somewhere.
He doesn't know what he wants at all.
In the end, it will be too little, too late.
Another day, week, month, year will go by
And they will be in the same place as they started.

Another set of Sandys and Dannys, Rizzos and Kenickies,
Where the magic of the movie wears off and the cycle starts again.

And he handed me the carnage of so many wasted and poverty stricken corpses.
And I scrubbed.
And as I scrubbed, I watched the water
turn into tea
and then into coffee
and then into a rainbow-shimmering sheen of crude oil.
I scraped the burnt-on remains-off
so the worn, rusted,
yet impregnable metal pieces
could be a bit more
presentable: lamentable.
In preparation of the first-world ones
who take a bite at pleasure, and then discard.
Who borrow by bond their treasure
and waste the world with all their lard.

Maybe I'm so hung up on you because boys like you in movies are supposed to call a girl like me back and as far as love stories go, this is the part where you tell me you miss our conversations and the way my hand feels against yours and you wish you had stuck with me because yo said the wrong thing so many times  and I just laughed along and loved you anyways

And maybe I'm so hung up on the way your voice sounded when you were happy because as far as love stories go, your voice sounded that way because of me

But maybe I've seen too many movies and that's why I let you kiss me

I care not for your “darling buds of May”
Nor the rough winds that howl at their expense
For the sea that is vast as they hair’s fray
I find your mind to be as vastly dense.

As the ocean is brimming with fresh catch;
Bellowing waves to the longing shorelines
Each hermit to shell in a God-made match
Unlike the way thy thoughts seem to align.

But in every shell exists a new creature
No matter what this shell may seem to be
Spontaneity exists bare in nature
As it was so it will remain to be.

As the brilliance of thy words come to a light
I find them burning longer than the night.