Post by Steve on Nov 19, 2007 12:45:13 GMT -5
The Catholic school sits on its rust-red haunches beneath an indecisive 1 a.m. sky. A pocked moon has receded into the height of night where angels drink for free, run up a tab that we assume are clouds, and really a thunderstorm is an angry bartender collecting a debt. Stomps and gunfire, a split in a water pipe dripping onto us; that’s all a thunderstorm is. But the moon has taken a step away from the earth for a breath of freshness; it was close enough to swallow but a few nights ago; and it cools the green of the school’s roof to a smoother, more fish like blue.
There’s an emptiness to the wind and its ring is hollow as it barrels down the street. Soon the city will forget about the small plot of grass and trees, benches and garbage cans will all be without maintenance as the congestion on the roads fade and the traffic lights are set to blink away something that had blown in their eyes. And when this happens my soft vulva body will bleed on and off in many 1 a.m. red-light nights; waiting like a starving spider on the stairway—only catching time in the angles of my web.
A strange white substance on my jeans catches my attention. I take my thumb-nail and begin ripping scales of dander from the seam of my crotch. In the distance a vehicle passes; the trail of calm hush, like a sedated ocean, coos through the empty block between them and, me. There’s a thickness of silence as the red “Don’t Cross” hand illuminates towards a vacant sidewalk.
An asshole in a foreign car, which all cars are now, brakes at the red light spilling his vomit through six speakers. The driver’s window is rolled down and two fingers release a half-smoked cigarette. The driver gets the green light and slowly, after the obnoxious scream from his engine, the world slips into its quietness again.
Soon public transportation will end its marathon early in the night. Already they have stopped buses with the route of Cape May to Wildwood by 10’o`clock. Liquor stores and bars will tell us that they’ll see everyone next year; even though people who read them daily already know. There will be banners a crossed most of the businesses with messages: “Thanks for a GREAT season, see YOU next year” intended for tourists who’ve already left.
The boardwalk will be a leg with Shingles. The row of stores will drag their iron eye-lids down and switch off their lights; keep closed eyes to the dimming glory of the Atlantic. The arms of the Ferris wheel will feel the prick and sigh of a controlled coma; the bulbs dark and salty would look nearly grey. Next spring its heart will jump at the first taste of an amphetamine shot, dancing to life in primary colours; but that is still so many months away.
The option to either continue scraping the toothpaste textured stain, or, stop and smoke a cigarette arises. A cigarette costs thirty-cents, six dollars a pack; I choose to remove more of the mysterious spackle matter. i alternate from using my thumb to my index while staring at the massive crater in the street that earlier blew my tire.
Soon the hope might rise through me that perhaps, by chance, the roads could possibly be re-conditioned. With the abundant time the roads we’ve paid to have maintained should be repaired. Authority should be supervised to prevent abuse of streets; bridges; and general roadways. Twenty-five ton fire-trucks are not fit to be driven over a fifteen ton capacity bridge. That is basic mathematics, and they’re the people who receive and possess our money.
The building that meets the minimum number of windows and doors, growing mildew that is rinsed away yearly, in time will lose its blue and white uniformed freckles and gain the echoes of Russian chatter and the creaking of Mexican bicyclists.
The two old ladies, sharing the house next door, will move out before Halloween. The white building and the empty porch will leave a blankness in our population. There won’t be anymore more football statistic quizzes when i open my door; only the vacant space where i once looked and saw square-squat- Carol leaning softly on her cane.
A sharp agonizing burn on the side of my penis stopped my finger and i lit a cigarette. The spot was frayed. Light blue straps stretching like a bridge beneath and to the side of my zipper; in the glow of the street-lamp i see the piece of skin pulled back like the tin-lid on a sardine can. i smoke more of the cigarette thinking about drinking a beer to numb the fire inside of my jeans. i throw the stick in a can as I make my way to the refrigerator. The wind quiets as the door shuts and i find myself lost in a thought only born in the crisp fizz of a fresh beer.
In all this desolation and thinness, the grey bleak spaces that seem to invade everything, one can only believe that to be liberated you must be suffocated. A few have successfully inebriated themselves to continue the transformation into fish; it’s mass knowledge that near future will have this place sunk.
i walk into the porch, look into the window as I sit at my typewriter. The television beyond the red fence glows ghostly blue and i think about the days to come when it will cast a blue square- that i will undoubtedly get lost within- on the powder in the park. But tonight, in the hovering dead-glow, i realize i really don’t mind it all, even the cut on my penis; if only everything didn’t involve neglect.
There’s an emptiness to the wind and its ring is hollow as it barrels down the street. Soon the city will forget about the small plot of grass and trees, benches and garbage cans will all be without maintenance as the congestion on the roads fade and the traffic lights are set to blink away something that had blown in their eyes. And when this happens my soft vulva body will bleed on and off in many 1 a.m. red-light nights; waiting like a starving spider on the stairway—only catching time in the angles of my web.
A strange white substance on my jeans catches my attention. I take my thumb-nail and begin ripping scales of dander from the seam of my crotch. In the distance a vehicle passes; the trail of calm hush, like a sedated ocean, coos through the empty block between them and, me. There’s a thickness of silence as the red “Don’t Cross” hand illuminates towards a vacant sidewalk.
An asshole in a foreign car, which all cars are now, brakes at the red light spilling his vomit through six speakers. The driver’s window is rolled down and two fingers release a half-smoked cigarette. The driver gets the green light and slowly, after the obnoxious scream from his engine, the world slips into its quietness again.
Soon public transportation will end its marathon early in the night. Already they have stopped buses with the route of Cape May to Wildwood by 10’o`clock. Liquor stores and bars will tell us that they’ll see everyone next year; even though people who read them daily already know. There will be banners a crossed most of the businesses with messages: “Thanks for a GREAT season, see YOU next year” intended for tourists who’ve already left.
The boardwalk will be a leg with Shingles. The row of stores will drag their iron eye-lids down and switch off their lights; keep closed eyes to the dimming glory of the Atlantic. The arms of the Ferris wheel will feel the prick and sigh of a controlled coma; the bulbs dark and salty would look nearly grey. Next spring its heart will jump at the first taste of an amphetamine shot, dancing to life in primary colours; but that is still so many months away.
The option to either continue scraping the toothpaste textured stain, or, stop and smoke a cigarette arises. A cigarette costs thirty-cents, six dollars a pack; I choose to remove more of the mysterious spackle matter. i alternate from using my thumb to my index while staring at the massive crater in the street that earlier blew my tire.
Soon the hope might rise through me that perhaps, by chance, the roads could possibly be re-conditioned. With the abundant time the roads we’ve paid to have maintained should be repaired. Authority should be supervised to prevent abuse of streets; bridges; and general roadways. Twenty-five ton fire-trucks are not fit to be driven over a fifteen ton capacity bridge. That is basic mathematics, and they’re the people who receive and possess our money.
The building that meets the minimum number of windows and doors, growing mildew that is rinsed away yearly, in time will lose its blue and white uniformed freckles and gain the echoes of Russian chatter and the creaking of Mexican bicyclists.
The two old ladies, sharing the house next door, will move out before Halloween. The white building and the empty porch will leave a blankness in our population. There won’t be anymore more football statistic quizzes when i open my door; only the vacant space where i once looked and saw square-squat- Carol leaning softly on her cane.
A sharp agonizing burn on the side of my penis stopped my finger and i lit a cigarette. The spot was frayed. Light blue straps stretching like a bridge beneath and to the side of my zipper; in the glow of the street-lamp i see the piece of skin pulled back like the tin-lid on a sardine can. i smoke more of the cigarette thinking about drinking a beer to numb the fire inside of my jeans. i throw the stick in a can as I make my way to the refrigerator. The wind quiets as the door shuts and i find myself lost in a thought only born in the crisp fizz of a fresh beer.
In all this desolation and thinness, the grey bleak spaces that seem to invade everything, one can only believe that to be liberated you must be suffocated. A few have successfully inebriated themselves to continue the transformation into fish; it’s mass knowledge that near future will have this place sunk.
i walk into the porch, look into the window as I sit at my typewriter. The television beyond the red fence glows ghostly blue and i think about the days to come when it will cast a blue square- that i will undoubtedly get lost within- on the powder in the park. But tonight, in the hovering dead-glow, i realize i really don’t mind it all, even the cut on my penis; if only everything didn’t involve neglect.