the race

i was caught up in a race. three legged sack race. this is the ceremony. the peaceful passages between a group of sweat drenched men, in soaked and kind-of-rotten smelling sweats1, we were hopping along, feeling the finishing line (too many words, metaphors and similes, but 1,2,3,4, ect. like toes that touch water, fingers over fire to feel the burn, so much like tongue-fingering-blisters in mouth so as to feel the pain, which is only to reestablish that one is alive, like swimming in the atlantic w/dog or dogs, how the water is becoming, becoming like a second skin, almost like a trophy, a prize, just for falling in, and mostly like a first drink, bc a first drink is a sort of a finish line, a end to a drunk cum common worker after tedious computer workday, before kids, wife, and familial duties-in that order) like sharks on the kill (not that killing should be frowned upon; pig's for breakfast in the form of bacon, which i love ((but not like love for girlfriends or wives)) for blood in the water ( a humbolt squid, they are multiplying as we speak and maybe i meant that-that in the sense that the parenthesis before this didn't make sense). four more human steps and we'd have won- won in the metaphysical sense, like we might've won if i was an elephant (or dromadarie who is for water) and you were the ears and my woman (girlfriend) was the trunk (and who the hell would even fathom the fathoms to find the trunk while we were trolling; captain nemo would). we didn't. you can read this. avuncular hugs (hugs, hugs, pats on the back of hairy cousins, brothers , and uncles), between everyone but us. the jig was (is) up. two friends (code names, THE CRACK AND THE FACTOR), me (THE FACTOR) twenty two, the other sack hopper thirty two (THE CRACK).
pabst ribbon after that (blue), yeah, nothing spectacular cause nothing was spectacular(in the sense of fireworks or aborted fireworks or burn someone/something special types; expressionistic types. you know characters aren't representations of, but the vehicle in which i can express my true feelings, thoughts, cause we shouldn't be postmodern and the, the arguement considered, it will continue, ect.). we played bingo at margo's (no one that i know; margo's was named after a woman named barbara's g-mom that she didn't really know that well, she only met her once when she was...well you can ask her, she tend's bar on friday nights) bar-steathily hiding from father's and family (i feel like i've already topographically mapped this ground in my head, but as i hit the preverbial head, i gave up this tid-bit) and a certain respite is gained at once. month's ago there were some cover ups between you and everyone is this room, but you got kicked out, clothes and all. margo's is a dump (if you have preferences stop fucking reading or go fuck yourself behind...ugh something or in you behind). But if we win bingo (BINGO!), well, 'bingo,' and we get either a midget porn dvd or we got a can of sardines (packed at it's peak freshness for $1.49). it's beside the point (i wrote this, but in revision, i'm a person repulsed. i'm an animal, hopefully a humming bird bc humming birds are egnigmas, w/their exceptional abilities to make wind w/their winds and at the same time keep their bodies corporeally afloat).

rainy. snowy. sleet like. that explains the weather here in philadelphia (or maybe i'm in jersey, but i'm aloud by proximity, right? cause, well bc, i swam and got a twisted neck while i was breast-stroking this written explaination possible)

blood in the water (written previously, but is thematic).
she's staring at you (not you specifically, but at someone written about/for).
we should order drinks to swallow or engulf or find a gulf in our ouerve (body of work: minimal and not needed here to progress, well, progress). martini dry-what does that really mean, i mean, cause i've gotten so many bloody somewhat's (don't have the depths to explain or fake it now), but dry...i don't know any bartender tricks. bottom shelf, top? do they ask?
they didn't tonight (quiet honest, never have been to a classy enough place whereas top-shelf and bottom-shelf would hold any distinction, but i went to an after hours bar cum strip club that did offer a choice, surprisingly, but i feighned indifference, to be different).
mark got his drink. it came with a straw, like the kind you can get at a 711 (just finally found the descriptive word or phrase, coffee mixer straw; the kind that you'd have to be a whore to suck g&t out of (suck a golf ball through a garden hose type).
the girl he was looking at (or spectating or loving, or comparing w/wedges or shotgun shells be more man or just straight up feeling imbibed) made me feel love-sick (the kind that can only be described by shit songs on radio, and will not get into specific songs that are youthful reminders that are emotional and historical triggers that entail one student paranodially standing next to car, smoking (something, can be many things) and constantly on the lookout while listening and while being singled out as, well, ummm, poetically speaking, a mountain w/o snow (meaning every other hs guy know was a mountain w/snow).

sleet. freaking shit (freaking bc, like freaking bc), the sunshine, i'd give a copper mine for (or goto camden and strip copper from wires in walls. ammendment, no, wouldn't do that). the walk home was exactly what you'd (i didn't) expect. the pavement thinks it had an accident cause it's face is cracked and smudgey (smeared like grade f'ing f, aunt jemimah's sugary syrup smothered on french toast ((ft)) or eggo brand waffles) where i fell on it (but it wasn't, it was that bitch slut bag whore that's all over him and then ((now)) cracked and has a hurt face or tits or body-ice) like an aborted snow angel. the door is locked. it's always locked. keys are at the bar (what else was left there?). the landlady smells like wild turkey (and, sure, she is one wild turkey) and terrified is the atmosphere that her husband/boyfriend? invokes when one comes a'knocking late (3am) for locked-out syndrome (been down this street? or hallway? you must be a neighbor) which is strangely like stockholm syndrome in the sense that 'knocker' is to 'captive' and 'resident landlady' is to 'captor' in the sense that 'knocker' (i.e. 'captive') commiserates w/the 'resident landlady' (i.e. 'captor'). nobody answers-well fuck her-per usual. the carpet is nothing nice, but what carpet lonely lies in hallway are deep-pile? at this point (now or yesterday or really this morning) neighbors will give a neighborly A.M. shake or trip over prostrated body (can you imagine this? there is a light that is perpandicular to the hallway and around 6:30 A.M. in the summer, can be it's own alarm clock, but it's the winter) so as the body shall be on time for, well things to be on time for.

things to be on time for. work is one. should be two according to man region, but work is one. breakfast at work is 1(a). breakroom is supplied w/refrigerator which is stocked w/coworkers edibles (edible coworkers, ha!). stealth is 1(b), which calls for unstarched collars (as a matter of fact, no tie and absolutely, as a rule of thumb, never button the top button. remember, head on a swivel or you'll get hit. thank you coach mike ditka) and shoeless feet, unburdened. pretend that toes were made for fabric or that, fuck it, that toes are the carpet, fibers and toe prints made to be intertwined inbetween the detritus sheddings of yesterdays (mission will be completed w/o any reservations). 1(c), empty email inbox, don't need anyone seeing the filth in there.


1. This sack race encompassed a few women teams. They were just as adept within the regulations of the 3 legged sack race, even beating men. Most likely b/c their menstrual cycle all hit at the same time and through some other-worldly alien symbiotic telekinesis, were linked-up to defeat the men (including my group) in a dexterious pursuits, advantagously (unbeknownenst to the men) handling us w/o much effort.