Post by Steve on Oct 24, 2005 23:40:52 GMT -5
There was a coffee shop at the corner of Garfield and C street, diagonal from the post office, a cross the street was a hobby shop and a tattoo parlor. This was the small section of Parkland-the tiny portion of Tacoma that was reserved for heads, for frightened angels hiding from the rest of the world. their eyes always tearful no matter how much bud they smoke, their tongues always stroking dreams onto thick air canvas in front of their lover, the air heavy with chemicals from meth labs with kitchen windows smoking like stacks of newark jersey factories belching monstrous clouds.-that made me forget that my neighbors were most likely glass heads, that a cross C street; at the end of my block, there was a mobile home parked on the lawn of a crumbling blue shanty of a house. Made me less caring of the yellow-grey residue that collected on the windows, the once white curtains adhered to the pane in mold shaped like continents. The section was only a block long, but quiet and right above the Lutheran college. There was a record store who's owner was token from any cinema, long grey pony tailed hair soft intellectual voice coloured by various hues of youthful weed smoking, a Mexican restaruant-blessed little angel children wandering up and down the sidewalk. small girl wearing powder pink dress, has berrets in her ink black hair pushing her young brother in stroller with smile the swirls with the light of the sun and shows her bright white teeth to everyone. she is a father's perfect predicament. Beautiful beyond all other girls, her eyes will strike men down with such softness of feather or flower petal, her mind will know nothing malicious, thoughts blooming from Monet poppie field france-, pizzaria, and an over priced clothing knick knack store. I had gone to the Arc, the clothing place, once, still with no money, but just the curiousity of whether the merchandise was quality or not. It was a one room attic feeling place, i left only wanting an old derby that the grandfather salesman was charging $50 dollars for. But i have gone off a little ways, wanted Kansas and i end up with Florida.
So the coffee shop was at the corner of the two streets at the beginning of a small section of town that was secluded from the less desirable portions of town. It was here that i met Anne, a loose friend of Renea's, not close but not as distant as the others i was introduced to a couple of days prior. Anne was a giant compared to my average height frame body, she could have easily used my shoulders to lean her elbows on, with the kindest eyes that i had fallen into in the longest time. They were the colour blue you think of while wondering about the warm cottages with fireplace roaring in Alaska. Her skin was delicate looking, fraglie white as snowflake, her arms long sad willow branches smooth leaf thin fingers slid against the counter in whispers and sighs, sounds no more audiable than the beating of your own heart. Her voice had a desperate plead to it that bordered a good natured whine, but never quite matching her appearence her voice was left outside of her characteristics to most people.
Anne gave us free coffee, in fact, coffee became free not long after this, we haphazardly arrange plans to meet later that night and retire to the raw iron chairs outside of the shop. I flipped open the Burroughs book that i was currently reading and lit a cigarette preoccupied with the thought of getting drunk later. Renea left not long after sitting, heading to the library, home, the a small rivene on the side of the road; its evident that by this time our threads were wearing between us, and it wasn't even halfway through the month yet.
-I don't know how to mix a fucking margarita! you mix it then if your soooo gooood at it.- Anne was swaying in the hallway that led from her kitchen into the universal livingroom and bedroom where Renea and i sat in hysterics, drunk and stoned. Not one of the three of us knew how much tequila should be put in with the margarita mix, how many ice cubes to blend in order to make it a slush consistencey. So, the choice was unanimous that we should just pour rather than measure. The smoke hung thick in the room and collected around the light in the ceiling, casted clouds on the walls that spun with intoxication sickness. The windows were vibrating from the punky bass of Dinasour jr, and we were screaming from one end of the small studio house to the other, somehow between drinks and smoking we all had forgotten that Anne's parents were stopping by for her birthday. That's right, the reason we were there was because it was her birthday-the night before i had walked around the neighborhood stoned, just wandering as it soon became a habit of mine, when i found a small bottle of vodka(one that looked like it was from a mini fridge from a motel) empty, on the sidewalk. I picked it up thinking to myself that i could figure something to do with it. I kept walking about and decided on placing a flower inside of it, myself always amazed by the model sailboats crammed in a bottle sold on the shore boardwalk, i thought that perhaps Anne would think nice of a flower fitted into this tiny little bottle.-and here we were, the three of us drunk stoned tripping over words that to us were slippery as greased doorknob or the meaning of life, waiting for her parents to show.
-Well guys, do you want another glass?- -Uh...yeah man,i'll take another, are your parents gonna drink with us?- i was barely able to form the sentences without squinting staring at the walls as though there was a projector displaying words and proper grammatical syntax. Renea was able to shake her head but mutter-Can i....(pause)pack another bowl?- -Renea, yea man, pack another one man, i don't care, and.....Ian right?- -Yea indeed that's be meh- -My dad might like you and decide to drink a little bit with you- She slurred the word little with the same amount of sluggishness that is patented by winos cowering on stoops in big detective ragged jacket sweeping the steps everytime the wind blew. It was fantastic, i felt my face stretch outwards at the thought of her swaying body over the sinnk fiddling with the blender mumbling to herself with heavy mick accent. I went into the kitchen, suave graceful knodding head spilling lavendar dreams all over her floor, with no real goal or objective; smiles, i arrived back in the living room with a beer and a deeper desire to take a walk. A walk into the campus with a cup to collect blackberries and a thermos to keep my margarita chilled, sing to the young girls reading under small sapling stretched out bellwise against the nuclear green lawn; oh there were a few heartskippers that oft` wandered around the serpentine sidewalks of the school, but i was celibate, everything about this trip was to be mental, anything physical was to be strictly reserved for side effects from substances.
I would remain celibate, but the bounds of experience would prove to owe no obligation to anyone who expects to be in control, to anyone who assumes there would be control to begin with.
There was a rapping at the door, at once we all knew that, well, no. None of us knew anything that was to be expected from all of this, each one only knew themselves and their own characteristics. Especially intoxicated. Or may be i am even putting too much emphasis on it now, after knowing everything to come, may be i should not try to build any form of suspense for the upcoming? The setting already has its tone, just let the rest be the rest i suppose might turn out the best.
So, there was a knock at the door and Anne got up to answer, knowing it was her parents. I slid a little further down the wall that i became codependent on and drank forcibly from the bottle of beer in my hand, waiting for the next round of margaritas to be brought out. Too much drink and too much smoke blurs details together, time frames begin to be only seperated by large gaps of nothingness, i am not to this point yet, but i do not remember what her parents looked like at all. Not the slightest recollection of resemblence of an actor, writer, train conductor, nothing but two vague figures that were never fully comprehended, like massive dreams standing before me i accepted their existence, but understood nothing. Two vague figures of the many i have met and would soon meet, and haven't met still as i write this, that dissipate from life like warm breath in winter.
Drunk i say my hellos, pass up on cake, -Oh, Ian? Its Cold Stone Cake, you sure you don't want any?- Her mother had the sweetest tone about her, not just in her voice, but like a short prose piece, her entire being just had this great auro of sweetness.-Hmmmm...i would love to but, a, i've been drinkin and b i'm a lactose intolerant- -Ah, Anne! why didn't you tell us...- at this point i smiled and nodded to her father and motioned that i was goin outside. I had my beer, and i had a cigarette, i had my memory of some jewish passover dinner that i had attended with Faith a couple months previously, how i had made a spectacle of myself by sitting out in the rain for most of the evening. just sitting there like i was now, back arched like a sliver of moon, staring off into liquid wilderness of song and weightlessness, wilderness of love. I had just stepped into this world when i heard the door open behind me, noticed that i had an unlit cigarette hanging from my mouth, and Anne's mother was walking passed me saying good bye. I am not sure what came over me, but with an ease of knowing her all my life; some great friend that i love, i hugged her and said good bye. She looked back to her daughter smiling saying-Oh, a hugger! i like that!- pinched my cheeks, already red, and hopped in the truck with her husband, of whom i had not forgotten manners with and shook his hand.
All of our eyes met when the vehicle drove off the block...-Wanna smoke?- who asked, i will never know, but it was the best timing of a common feeling anyone had in a long time.
At the shop, standing in old wool sports coat, hair array like buckley with sad ginsberg eyes scanning the room, i stood in a corned leaning against the wall. I wasn't sure where Anne, Renea and the new straggling friend of Anne's who met up with us at the coffee joint, were. Quite possible they had left about an hour before that, i was at the shop for two? Strange angel egged onto the stage to sing, starts off quiet acapella with subtle swingness in the melody, roots itself in strong blues notes and she's closing her eyes to the world, trapping herself in the words, her voice is their passage into our souls. Swirling crazy dance of my mind, joy. i can't help the feeling that welled up inside of me. My fragile feminine human flesh stretching like thin elastic skin of orange beneath the white rine, my wrinkles unfolding and creases flattening, my entire being inflated with every gasp before every heaven harp note sung. I wanted to find out her name, heard somewhere in the sea of teeth that it was Careese, but thats as far as weak womb nostalgic me ever got.
I left into the night singing sweet sweet: "Lilac Wine" with steps that led me to more beer, one more ring of smoke-with steps that will lead me off the edge of the earth with the beautiful 'swap' 'slap' 'scuff' 'swap' percussion with my old angel eyes seeing too much heaven than the man beside me knocking halos askew with insolence and greed, plucking feathers with compulsive need, i will walk off deep Utah plateau with pale world holding their muskets; break my brain shell and leak beautiful ambrosia sunset dreams over the rock splitting my smile-then a car ride a few blocks back to the house.
Every night ends balancing on Native cliff, i drift to sleep watching the stars of it all.
july 8 2005 from the journal
Bouquet Bandits they carry milk crates in their hands danglin` cigarette burns and falls like a shootin star.
their eyes on the hood of a `56 Chevvy, their ears on the rufflin of sheets their minds on the tigerlily dancin in the rocks.
Purple
yellow
green&white they strip colours from the church to place colour in the sky a daisy to cover Orion a lily to hide the bear
queen anne's lace to blotch a clutter...then throw it into an oil spill puddle to watch it brow with monarchial age.
the rose has no thorns only the stem cutting a cactus bare handed or with the dull side of a chef's knife
Bouquet Bandits they carry milk crates in their hands.
So the coffee shop was at the corner of the two streets at the beginning of a small section of town that was secluded from the less desirable portions of town. It was here that i met Anne, a loose friend of Renea's, not close but not as distant as the others i was introduced to a couple of days prior. Anne was a giant compared to my average height frame body, she could have easily used my shoulders to lean her elbows on, with the kindest eyes that i had fallen into in the longest time. They were the colour blue you think of while wondering about the warm cottages with fireplace roaring in Alaska. Her skin was delicate looking, fraglie white as snowflake, her arms long sad willow branches smooth leaf thin fingers slid against the counter in whispers and sighs, sounds no more audiable than the beating of your own heart. Her voice had a desperate plead to it that bordered a good natured whine, but never quite matching her appearence her voice was left outside of her characteristics to most people.
Anne gave us free coffee, in fact, coffee became free not long after this, we haphazardly arrange plans to meet later that night and retire to the raw iron chairs outside of the shop. I flipped open the Burroughs book that i was currently reading and lit a cigarette preoccupied with the thought of getting drunk later. Renea left not long after sitting, heading to the library, home, the a small rivene on the side of the road; its evident that by this time our threads were wearing between us, and it wasn't even halfway through the month yet.
-I don't know how to mix a fucking margarita! you mix it then if your soooo gooood at it.- Anne was swaying in the hallway that led from her kitchen into the universal livingroom and bedroom where Renea and i sat in hysterics, drunk and stoned. Not one of the three of us knew how much tequila should be put in with the margarita mix, how many ice cubes to blend in order to make it a slush consistencey. So, the choice was unanimous that we should just pour rather than measure. The smoke hung thick in the room and collected around the light in the ceiling, casted clouds on the walls that spun with intoxication sickness. The windows were vibrating from the punky bass of Dinasour jr, and we were screaming from one end of the small studio house to the other, somehow between drinks and smoking we all had forgotten that Anne's parents were stopping by for her birthday. That's right, the reason we were there was because it was her birthday-the night before i had walked around the neighborhood stoned, just wandering as it soon became a habit of mine, when i found a small bottle of vodka(one that looked like it was from a mini fridge from a motel) empty, on the sidewalk. I picked it up thinking to myself that i could figure something to do with it. I kept walking about and decided on placing a flower inside of it, myself always amazed by the model sailboats crammed in a bottle sold on the shore boardwalk, i thought that perhaps Anne would think nice of a flower fitted into this tiny little bottle.-and here we were, the three of us drunk stoned tripping over words that to us were slippery as greased doorknob or the meaning of life, waiting for her parents to show.
-Well guys, do you want another glass?- -Uh...yeah man,i'll take another, are your parents gonna drink with us?- i was barely able to form the sentences without squinting staring at the walls as though there was a projector displaying words and proper grammatical syntax. Renea was able to shake her head but mutter-Can i....(pause)pack another bowl?- -Renea, yea man, pack another one man, i don't care, and.....Ian right?- -Yea indeed that's be meh- -My dad might like you and decide to drink a little bit with you- She slurred the word little with the same amount of sluggishness that is patented by winos cowering on stoops in big detective ragged jacket sweeping the steps everytime the wind blew. It was fantastic, i felt my face stretch outwards at the thought of her swaying body over the sinnk fiddling with the blender mumbling to herself with heavy mick accent. I went into the kitchen, suave graceful knodding head spilling lavendar dreams all over her floor, with no real goal or objective; smiles, i arrived back in the living room with a beer and a deeper desire to take a walk. A walk into the campus with a cup to collect blackberries and a thermos to keep my margarita chilled, sing to the young girls reading under small sapling stretched out bellwise against the nuclear green lawn; oh there were a few heartskippers that oft` wandered around the serpentine sidewalks of the school, but i was celibate, everything about this trip was to be mental, anything physical was to be strictly reserved for side effects from substances.
I would remain celibate, but the bounds of experience would prove to owe no obligation to anyone who expects to be in control, to anyone who assumes there would be control to begin with.
There was a rapping at the door, at once we all knew that, well, no. None of us knew anything that was to be expected from all of this, each one only knew themselves and their own characteristics. Especially intoxicated. Or may be i am even putting too much emphasis on it now, after knowing everything to come, may be i should not try to build any form of suspense for the upcoming? The setting already has its tone, just let the rest be the rest i suppose might turn out the best.
So, there was a knock at the door and Anne got up to answer, knowing it was her parents. I slid a little further down the wall that i became codependent on and drank forcibly from the bottle of beer in my hand, waiting for the next round of margaritas to be brought out. Too much drink and too much smoke blurs details together, time frames begin to be only seperated by large gaps of nothingness, i am not to this point yet, but i do not remember what her parents looked like at all. Not the slightest recollection of resemblence of an actor, writer, train conductor, nothing but two vague figures that were never fully comprehended, like massive dreams standing before me i accepted their existence, but understood nothing. Two vague figures of the many i have met and would soon meet, and haven't met still as i write this, that dissipate from life like warm breath in winter.
Drunk i say my hellos, pass up on cake, -Oh, Ian? Its Cold Stone Cake, you sure you don't want any?- Her mother had the sweetest tone about her, not just in her voice, but like a short prose piece, her entire being just had this great auro of sweetness.-Hmmmm...i would love to but, a, i've been drinkin and b i'm a lactose intolerant- -Ah, Anne! why didn't you tell us...- at this point i smiled and nodded to her father and motioned that i was goin outside. I had my beer, and i had a cigarette, i had my memory of some jewish passover dinner that i had attended with Faith a couple months previously, how i had made a spectacle of myself by sitting out in the rain for most of the evening. just sitting there like i was now, back arched like a sliver of moon, staring off into liquid wilderness of song and weightlessness, wilderness of love. I had just stepped into this world when i heard the door open behind me, noticed that i had an unlit cigarette hanging from my mouth, and Anne's mother was walking passed me saying good bye. I am not sure what came over me, but with an ease of knowing her all my life; some great friend that i love, i hugged her and said good bye. She looked back to her daughter smiling saying-Oh, a hugger! i like that!- pinched my cheeks, already red, and hopped in the truck with her husband, of whom i had not forgotten manners with and shook his hand.
All of our eyes met when the vehicle drove off the block...-Wanna smoke?- who asked, i will never know, but it was the best timing of a common feeling anyone had in a long time.
At the shop, standing in old wool sports coat, hair array like buckley with sad ginsberg eyes scanning the room, i stood in a corned leaning against the wall. I wasn't sure where Anne, Renea and the new straggling friend of Anne's who met up with us at the coffee joint, were. Quite possible they had left about an hour before that, i was at the shop for two? Strange angel egged onto the stage to sing, starts off quiet acapella with subtle swingness in the melody, roots itself in strong blues notes and she's closing her eyes to the world, trapping herself in the words, her voice is their passage into our souls. Swirling crazy dance of my mind, joy. i can't help the feeling that welled up inside of me. My fragile feminine human flesh stretching like thin elastic skin of orange beneath the white rine, my wrinkles unfolding and creases flattening, my entire being inflated with every gasp before every heaven harp note sung. I wanted to find out her name, heard somewhere in the sea of teeth that it was Careese, but thats as far as weak womb nostalgic me ever got.
I left into the night singing sweet sweet: "Lilac Wine" with steps that led me to more beer, one more ring of smoke-with steps that will lead me off the edge of the earth with the beautiful 'swap' 'slap' 'scuff' 'swap' percussion with my old angel eyes seeing too much heaven than the man beside me knocking halos askew with insolence and greed, plucking feathers with compulsive need, i will walk off deep Utah plateau with pale world holding their muskets; break my brain shell and leak beautiful ambrosia sunset dreams over the rock splitting my smile-then a car ride a few blocks back to the house.
Every night ends balancing on Native cliff, i drift to sleep watching the stars of it all.
july 8 2005 from the journal
Bouquet Bandits they carry milk crates in their hands danglin` cigarette burns and falls like a shootin star.
their eyes on the hood of a `56 Chevvy, their ears on the rufflin of sheets their minds on the tigerlily dancin in the rocks.
Purple
yellow
green&white they strip colours from the church to place colour in the sky a daisy to cover Orion a lily to hide the bear
queen anne's lace to blotch a clutter...then throw it into an oil spill puddle to watch it brow with monarchial age.
the rose has no thorns only the stem cutting a cactus bare handed or with the dull side of a chef's knife
Bouquet Bandits they carry milk crates in their hands.