haaaay you??? you must got me some kind confused? caused i mean did you think i was ever gonna love you, trust YOU. better gon'on find another little TRICK to play cause i ain't no trick. by gollie you better find you 'nother one.
i am a city full of potholes, cracked pavement bearing the scars of industrialization, of the wilderness replaced with brick outcroppings that project towards the yellow-painted sunset.
i am the shadow of oak trees smothered by concrete, serpentine roots upheaving the work of men that light cigarettes in the rain and eat po-boys with mud-stained hands.
i am the shotgun houses, the history of shattered glass and rotting wood, the ghosts that stare from the shade of front porches, green and purple mardi gras beads swaying in time with the sun-stroked cicadas.
i am the mississipi river, a fount churned by steam boats and canoes, the flood that nourishes and takes away, a muddy rebirth, molding the land into a fertile crescent, a christening by dirt-streaked lips.
new orleans is an interesting place... i've never felt more immersed in a city before & i love it. it's gonna be a fun year.
school starts soon smoking joints on the weekday afternoon
in a sidelined shady freight car, property of Norfolk Southern
debating if this car will be northbound or southbound and master-bating our fantasy where we want to be taken
knowing full well maybe one of us - (and they all looking at me)
will get out of this car and live to see foreign places without having to return in a body bag
we argue lazy who should go get the beer, collect the quarters and sweaty dollar bills and **** if I am not reappointed leader of the beer fetching
besides it’s my tan lab panting needing water so it’s my responsibility and the nasty liquor store owner don’t hate me that much as the others so he’ll sell me beer without too much **** talk (some for sure)
asking where I’m laying low on a **** hot day like this one
tell him i’m getting on a train getting out of this two bit town which makes him reminisce and ask which direction
could be northbound could be southbound **** could be west but for sure won’t be going eastbound
Frame your Sunday brunch as a childhood sweetbit, manufacture after the capture with more redflags; pour relations after kith and kin with feigned hit.
The brunch is done and so is our agreement. The contract is as napkin math, undone and smeared ***** lipstick and cigaretted.
Forget about it, the millennium came and went and gone. All we have now is a time eerily similar to another without the escape of waking up and wiping face with yawn.
Cumbersome troubles on our sleeves tattoo'd for self-expression. But what did you need so badly to tell us about yourself, what lesson shall we learn through the sifting of eyefucks in Starbucks. Through the popular apathy of shrugged shoulders when mentioned Sisyphusian boulder. "**** happens." What else could? And in your gleaning of brilliant observation on the banality of complaints. What did you muster as axiom within your world-view of constraints? Did your unfinished novel and penchant for humanities, remove you further from nature than consciousness, remove you further from what makes us you and me? The condition we live in, despite temporal and generational bridges, hinges on the livings of lives. The thrives and thrivings of not, cannot be captured nor caught within the shallow swaip of a Sunday portrait turned to the side for landscape.