Me vs Robert Smith vs Camus

I am covered in sand. The sun is bearing down on my flesh, slowly aging me. It is the only thing that can do it. My mind stays young and sharp. My heart is probably reverse aging. But the sun takes my days away from me; takes other things away too. I push my feet as hard as I could against the ground to make a spot more permanent then the ones I typically occupy. The good book says something about people who build houses on the sand. I am a professional beach carpenter. Clouds sneak past above me. I hear jets but see no evidence. I stare at the sun. If I burn a hole in my retina then when I look to my left she won't be there. It is preparation for the next day, for the rest of my life, so I don't notice her walking away.

Everything is noise. The buildings collapse as I walk unfamiliar streets. No one knows me here, no one hears my voice, reads my words, or breaks bread with me.

Trees fall into the sea. People form committees to prevent this tragedy again. A parade route is planned. Someone hires a poet to commemorate the day. They dedicate a rock to where the tree used to be and put up a fence so no one gets too close to the rock. Or the edge.

I sit next to the stone. Next to the edge. I fall into the sea. No one notices, no one stops their parade, no one give a second thought.

But the sky grows dark. Storms rage in the distance. The waves crash backwards. The ocean wants to roll back time. It doesn't want another body, it was filled to the brim. It builds a life boat of the lives it destroyed to keep me afloat. It curses the sun, it curses my heart, and it curses the sand.

Spit back out onto land, dry, but cold and hardened, no one noticed I left.

Or that I am never going back.

Shocking my body into thought

I am only taking cold showers. I don't want any steam covering the glass of the doors. I want to see the reflection of my body shivering and shaking in the mirror. Old scars raise out of my flesh, purple and now no longer forgotten; a road map of accidents to counter the road map of life I had drawn on my skin. The soap sticks to my skin longer than it should, my hands wipe then scrub. I let the freezing water attack my face, opening my eyes to it as an anonymous punishment for some sin I'll commit in someones eyes. Some people pray, some repent. I sit in cold showers while the saddest songs play on repeat and are occasionally drowned out by the world spinning past me outside of the window. Tears, sweat, blood, mucous, and other things blend with the water and slip down the drain. I count the beats of my heart while I hold my breath. Each day it is a little longer. Each day there is another beat or two. Each day I have to remind myself to let it go; the breath and the day.

White Couch Serenata

Poetry and myself aren't very good friends. We sort of just randomly happen to be in the same room, then there is an awkward glance or two. At some point we share a beer and talk about superficial things that have happened since the last time we saw eachother. I ran into poetry the other morning in the kitchen. Strange

I know the sun has set
and is closer to rise
despite all my best efforts
I still feel my hand on your thigh.

I can hear the sound of your dreams
as they dance towards me down the street
alone on this couch by the window
I look out towards where you sleep.

So right now I wish you good night
right now I wish you good sleep
right now I wish you all the joy in life
you get when we fall asleep.

Pre-work-meditation

It gets old, being told everything is your fault.
It gets old, being told you are a mistake.
It gets old, trying to work out problems.
It gets old, trying to stay quiet.
It gets old, wanting to run away.
It gets old, wanting to not be responsible.
It gets old, the apologies.
It gets old, the revisionist.

Things are fine, or they will be when I get home from work.

Friday is MAYDAY. It will be nice to put the things that keep me up in the mornings on a different shelf then the one they reside.

A story later, ok?

Dear Miss Backer,

Your two items that were the entirety of your purchase are as follows:

1. Ground Turkey (probably for burgers)
2. Cat Litter (probably for a littler box)

The original color of your hair was peaking out of your scalp, most likely to be taken care of before the next night you took those two well manufactured mounds more commonly called breasts out on the town. (My teachers would call that a run on sentence; it would be hell to diagram.) Your purse was large enough to fit 6 gold bars and probably cost 3. I saw you drive away in your H3, with its H3 license plate frame, just in case some one didn't notice the H3 symbol above the other H3 symbol. You drove over two double yellow lines to go about your business, I did too.

I imagine you at home now, yoga pants and sports bra. Your hair is up in a bun, your cat is curled up next to a fireplace, or a wall heater. Turkey, uncooked. Cat box, unfilled. Text messages on an Iphone plan some future night of possible infidelity, for someone. A throw pulled over your feet and a bottle of smartwater sits on the end table. Are you smarter than a 5th grader? Yes. Yes, you are.