So I wrote to myself.
It's not that I didn't have anyone else to write or vice versa.
What conveys is a generosity of deep truth found with over 1,000 jokes printed on the cover.
Truth be told it's actually more than that.
I am not exactly what you would call a handsome man, but you'd be surprised how much you cross someones mind when they are in need.
So I wrote to myself.
An embodiment that grew legs of it's own.
Kind of like missing out on something that's been in front of you the whole time.
The irony of free will.
A change of scenery, a fresh coat of paint.
It's like nothing ever happened.
I guess that's the inside joke of another day
Her body was a city.
Filled with folk who spoke with their hands.
Nothing was ugly. The way that they vocalized.
She lived in the street, watching every little thing come alive.
Her body was a city where most times we sat in the car.
With no idea where we were going.
Most of the time just sitting there with the music playing.
I loved going places with her, most times just sitting still.
There wasn't just one landmark that stood out. Often time loosing sense of direction.
Sex heard through the ears of a leaky car and rattling tailpipe.
Her body had a culture of it's own.
Moet' shaped frame, cigar paper still wove tight. Still in the package.
Rich in the sound that came alive soon as her eyes closed. The same color of her car.
Each little thing contributed to the support of how she dreamed with her eyes open.
The folk whom spoke with their hands. lost in a multitude of conversation.
Everything came to life with each passing glance.
A few folks walking pass, the corner store still lit.
Sitting in a still car, promoting live art.
The little orange wrench popping up on the dashboard motioning perspective.
Often a soloist, she'd let me visit by the hum of buzzing lights.
Wooden street poles, medium sized plastic aluminum and glass.
We sat under the street light in a mid sized sedan without need for seat belts.
Rich in the sound that came alive soon as her eyes closed.
I myself became a resident.
Following the songs she'd play.
I'd listen intently often forgetting everything she just said.
The contact of screen to phone. The back drop of lights ringing in silence.
Volume cut low, Most of the time just sitting there with the music playing.
Everything just seemed to disappear in the percussion her body would make.
The swift motion her hips would make,
The songs she'd mouth to herself.
I wasn't completely hopeless.
Just in love with the blues
I never thought twice about it
Catching a glimpse of her from behind.
Red stilettos, long slender legs
Tight black dress,
Orb like body.
Though the thought of approaching her never crossed my mind
I noticed that one of her stilettos came off as she hurried to wherever she was headed.
I made haste, calling out to grab her attention reaching to grab the missing shoe before she got too far in front of me.
She hesitated coming to a complete stop.
Seeming that she was one of those girls that was always on the go.
Very accomplished, well educated.
But her here, out of all places.
Something seemed off.
She gave the appearance that she had to make it to wherever she was going
So I rushed the shoe over to her.
The thought of something so innocent never crossed my mind to be so fatal.
The closer I approached the stiller she became.
Alone in the dark,
Along the troubles of the world this I understood and assured her that I meant no harm.
Shoe in hand, I extended my arm attempting to give her shoe back.
I took one more step,
At this pivotal moment is where I wished that gut instinct kicked in.
At this same exact moment is when she turned around.
Revealing that not all was what it appeared to be.
An couple sets of extra eyes, a few extra legs.
This was where my arachnophobia began
The problem with people nowadays
Is they demand too much
a dollar and a daydream nowadays is never enough
Everyone wants to be fucking rich
but they just sit around looking at trees
How the fuck can that happen
I see virgins wishing they were fucked
But when in the moment, chicken out
If that wasn't enough to fuck things up
Then why do you want it?
Why do you want something you're not sure of?
Why do I want you?
With all your blasphemies and bullshits
From day till night
I fucking want you
My mind is set on pursuing you
but nowadays, that's not enough
wanting you will never be the same as having you
I will even take a bullet for you
but that bullshit will never be enough
To win you over
Nothing is ever enough
Not even the universe
There is such thing called
Man's never-ending need for perfection
Stars explode during daytime,
firecrackers produce my ashes
burnt to death ,
I see an oasis far away
soaking up in the desert
with the faux Pyramids behind,
sand flies into my humble vortex
revealing my secrets hid behind the curtain
it’s too passé !
my shoes run off with the tide
rubbing against the scales of a Tuna
my feeble conscience is hidden behind those doors
playing hide and seek for long,
I drink every thirst of water
capturing the swarm in my jar
margarita flows in the canals of Venice
creating drunkards by the mast,
my boat where Venus reigns
sinks in the depths of my soul
lifeless limbs swim my wretched body away
I embrace the black moon .
In school, I was always getting spoken to about the length of my sentences; I used semicolons more than anyone else my teacher had ever met and he always asked me why I didn't just end the sentence and begin again; I always told him that I was scared to end one if I wasn't sure it was finished yet; what if it wanted another chance? What if it was ready to start again? I wrote an essay in which the entire introduction was one long sentence, it went on for two pages and I had to rewrite it three times because it was not concise enough. I grew worried that I'd end up the same way the rest of my life; what if I was always too scared to end things because I wasn't sure if I would be able to start from scratch? What if I held on to one thing for too long and lost the chance of another one hatching and what if I never learned how to start fresh? I was always used to starting over, but it's different when you're older. You don't start over with the same white heart, you start over, carrying the bruises you got from fighting for years and you start over knowing that any move could be the one that ends your sentence and you start over knowing you're creating run-on after run on but you don't care as long as your words have somewhere safe to go; you don't care as long as they know they're welcome there, because god knows they weren't anywhere else.