In the dawn light arms wrap around my lumpy undefined waist
Coffee warms my hands but her breath warms my chest
It snakes through me like a car down the interstate
Quickly and with purpose
Soft hands graze the stretch marks at my hips because she wants to remember every piece of me
That’s what she told me
Every peppered mole read off of my skin like it’s the most enthralling fairytale
Every jagged scar etched and carved into this veneer tasted and heard
She calls it “reading the paper”
Turning me page by page
Perusing each of my lines for something she hadn’t seen before
She says she always finds something
It’s sinfully slow
And she’s patient with me
Loving me with her morning breath ghosting down my spine and her bed head tickling my shoulder
She whispers a “good morning” that makes my toes curl with my lips and my stomach dance like my fingers clenched around a hot mug
Tomorrow she’ll read the paper again
She always does
Because “there’s a new one every day”
You should be wilder.
Dreams drift away,
Mixing with city smog darken the day.
Hope drowns itself
In wasted tears.
Why not regress,
As suggested by Sigmund?
Remember to a time
When rain-boots speckled with mud
Were more appealing than stilettos;
When dreams floated away
Into the oceans of the sky
On the wings of dandelion wishes;
Back when hope
Was a surplus product,
And ‘the corner’ was our inferno.
Cover your ears
To this siren song of
Put out the cigarette.
The air fills with
Smells of bubble gum
And cotton candy,
Revel in the innocence.
In lieu of heady passions
Let bubbles kiss your face rather than boys and girls.
Tears are only shed
Because of the supposed
One plus one is what it is,
Anything is possible,
Dream of innocence dissipates.
Realization takes control.
Take another drag
Of that Marlboro.
Old memories fill these thoughts
As images scatter.
The past’s simplicity:
Small smiles, light laughter,
Scraped knees, and bumble bee band-aid’s
All gone for good.
Cars lined the lot,
reflecting brilliance of the sun.
Cooking in the heat they looked like
Large coffins, awaiting their next victim.
Perhaps a group of teenagers,
Or maybe a new father.
Death has no favorites.
Unbiased, unprejudiced, Fair.
Ironic in a way.
1870 London, England.
Coby tried to disappear into the shadows as Mother stared down into his smoky gray eyes. The tension on the air was almost unbearable. Mother’s mouth screwed upwards as if she’d tasted something foul. Eyes sharp, she turned suddenly, making Coby jump.
"Tonight is the big night, Coby-love. Are you ready to become part of the Family?"
The Family, he thought with intense satisfaction. How he’d dreamt of this night. For three grueling years he’d been trying to prove himself to Mother, waiting for the perfect time to show his talents for coercion. Oh how lucky he was that Mother had favored him above the other sewer-rats that had crawled into the hands of the Family.
Aksel’s eyed settled on the familiar gray, metallic pail that had just slid beneath the dog door and into the solitary confinement chamber. He leaned his head back against the icy cold cement walls of the chamber and continued his monotonous gnawing at his arm. He’d been at it for almost an hour now and was relatively satisfied by the large patch of skin he’d managed rub raw with his grimy decay ridden teeth. His usually pale skin of his arm was now puffy and pink from the top layer of the epidermis being bitten off.
Let the soft jazz fill the night air,
as Sinatra lulls us into reveries come fly with me.
Mr. Ellington plays us off to sweet tunes,
letting the sax carry us away to New York, New York.
Birds return south for the winter.
You know how I feel, don’t you?
Let the music carry you back
Screw the other girls,
They’re parasites, Kid, clinging to you for dear life.
Sucking the happy from you, they revel in your unease.
For God’s sake, Kid,
just let go!
Just let me love you, or whatever the hell this elation is called!
I’ll appreciate those witty comebacks.
You’re pompous attitude,
I’ll feed it.
Forget the other girls, por favor.
Like Mrs. Fitzgerald, it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing, Kid.
It’s all or nothing here.
Like Mr. Crespo, I like ‘em suave.
Mr. Bublé’s got the right idea: save the last dance for me.
Call me irresponsible, I call it fun.
Come play, Kid, let the beats carry you to me.
Why the apprehensions, Kid?
Mr. Louis Jordan understood, it’s as simple as a question.
Is you is or is you ain’t my baby?
That’s it, Mr. Armstrong, bring that kid this way,
It’s just such a wonderful world when we’re together, Hun.
Don’t let these 300 flowers wither.
Miss Miller, lend me a hand with this Kid,
And since these flowers are ripe for the plucking,
Pray, dream a little dream of me.
Can’t you see, Kid?
We’ve got much more than a mere kiss to build a dream on.
Why is it that I get a kick out of you?
Won’t you make that kick mutual?
Since I tire of this temptation,
Just be mine.
This brandy’s rusting
in that diamond glass you’re sipping from.
Mr. Cooley, Mr. Davenport, I need your help.
This kid’s giving me fever.
It’s just so hard to bare.
Don’t let this be the story
of the gal that got away.
I need you here with me, Kid.
Too bad I haven’t met you yet.