part of blue

all of the cracks of winter curled upon themselves and made fingerprints on hands. the dry air was just that, dry. breath leaked from our open mouths and if anyone looked hard enough, they could make shapes of the whorls, the frost that came from lips and chapped the fuck out of what was made up of our skin. if they were imaginative and didnt temporize the moment (i saw a calico cat come out of katie's mouth) they would've seen, um, whiskey bottles, the necks of small women, the feet of children finished upsetting the mud. they would've seen children. yeah that's it. let's not make sense of what tomorrow and the love that might come. it's brooklyn, flatbush proper, where rich kids take their parent's money and fuck and drink and smoke and just get fucked up to the point where they might just come back to their flat and piss and moan while they're urinating in their hamper. into their unmentionables. did i mention that this person i'm talking about it is a woman and she's shaking knees and quivering and upsetting the qualified norms by pissing in HER hamper by standing on a stepping stool? the acceptions we make for girls (ha, see there i'm supposed to say something there that makes some sort of contrivance of what a girl is or isn't supposed to do).
jack held amy hard, fucking broke her wrists. almost constricting her nerves, definately breaking the capilaries on her metatarsals. bruises. brused. broken? no.
he lost one wife. a long time ago, so what does that matter.

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.

yeah, so...

nothing really new. kinda boring holiday season so far with new years looking like the reg. going to b&n in a little after i caffenate myself sober to get infinite jest (i know that i'm late on that one) and maybe find some clothes or something on sale (gotta be a good consumer and stimulate the economy...just think, if britney spears can make a comeback, so can the economy!). oh, got m. netflix and i'm already using it more than her, which leads me to believe that i really do buy presents for myself, disguised as a gift for somebody else...well, the assassination of jesse james by the coward robert ford should ship tomorrow and i'm pretty sure she wanted to see that too.

yeah, so....that's all folks.

you're no longer tied into your body

i don't mind. strings find their way into my knot.
ooo.
you're this kind of beautiful,
you find your way past your scars into the sink.
well if we could diagnose or dispose
you would find yourself with your dog in the trash.
the skyline melts with me
and the waves crash into the
i don't fucking mind.
ooo.
but if you come up sometime to reach some air
send me a message to fall from up in the air.

oh, i sent you a note, it's in your mail BOX propped against a cd with my bad robin williams impersonations.

christmas shopping

being a serial procrastinator has it's drawbacks. sure, i love the time i waste between now and when something is due (christmas presents on christmas) but so does everybody else. i just don't like being like every other cattle lead to the slaughter (cash register) en masse and being a last minute fuck, there i will be tomorrow, fighting for last sweaters (for my mother) and the last of the 'best deal, lowest price guaranteed' external hard drives (for pops).

well, at least i'm learning, i still have a week before the fat man in the red suit puzzles his fat self through the maze of my heating duct system (no fireplace, but i bought butter in bulk at bj's wholesale club to grease the ducts. i knew that member card would come in handy to preserve christmas joy. i also laid out cookies next to vent. no milk though, warm milk would make santa sleepy and i would be scared shitless if i awoke to a fat bearded stranger in a red get-up next to me on my futon, stealing the sheets so un-house-guest-like).

well cross your fingers for me so i won't get shot or trampled tomorrow or god forbid, a seeing eye dog maul me for grabbing the last copy of daredevil -for someone i hate- though i've never heard of that one happening, but there's always a first time.

her room is fantastically cluttered (fantastically cluttered is the best)

there was this girl, i loved her like a paper cup. her skin was dyed into her body, then she let go. i don't mind. what goes in the stream of this, i haven't got no skin. it's tied to the Montana mountain in the evening time. but i don't mind, or what goes goes on. will i find your skin scraped out, carving letters throughout the thermals in the air, leaving tendrils of light like lightning, flaring up in the atomic spaces between your pointer and fuck off fingers? but to you, love goes in 'an oh what the oh what the oh what the...' we saw the sky go 'what the,' the accidental constellation innocence in the small train substations. how you love to go into the small spaces. most of us find temples to take the time that we lost or build houses to farm out our thoughts, but the rain swallows the humming birds that steal away the motions and subsequently, i can see people who run marathons instead of taking blame. millions of petals fall, breaking the surface tension of rain water. the geese fly low and dislocates us and how it steals the water and our spirit leaks into the ocean. don't worry about the watering, she swam toward the spooking in the rich folks neighborhood and was gifted in overcoming, scared of being discarded.

couple weeks before christmas

this morning i forewent a 'brunch' with my girlfriend (who in this blog, we will call m.), which created a prodigious hissy fit (sorry, i don't know if anyone else uses that term anymore, so if you don't, insert dummy spit or strop in place of hissy fit) which resulted in an impromptu train ride to philadelphia for a few 'what the fucks' over overpriced beers, otherwise known in the winter season to me as watching football. i found out last season that whenever we had a row (or hissy fit, dummy spit, or a strop) i would unwind the best by yelling at a television screen at rich adults playing a kids game while getting blitzed (drunk, not chased after by 250 lbs+ men) and have continued to use this as a quasi-crutch to hobble myself away from tiff (see above for replacements) after another with m. it's just a coincidence that i took a train into the city last year and ended up (in this blog i will call the bar q. not because i don't want the bar to get some publicity, but the total opposite, i don't want to sully it's name or patrons through inaccurate bad publicity) in center city and have been going ever since.

not a hole in the wall, nor a taproom with suits and ties (though i have seen a regular sporting a tuxedo print tee once), nor is it either a room full of jacked up, testosterone junkies with their hands scratching nuts, chucking chicken wing bones or slamming beer mugs or fists on the counter tops along with expletives every time the eagles (my team, in my fair city) fumble or a receiver drop a pass. it isn't the cleanest bar and if you do drop your food on the floor, there is no five second rule (but as a rule of thumb, the five second rule should disappear once you step out of your house/apartment/parents basement, but you don't have to listen to me...) or waitress that sweeps the cigarette butts up when the accumulate beneath your feet. it's a 'put 'em out wherever but don't fucking burn the place down,' kinda place. now, this place isn't a slop house either, it is probably cleaner than where you live and has better looking people too...well, maybe not, but the people are nice and if you don't mind the smoke, you grow used to the relative uncleanliness.

it's got your stock amenities, urinals and bar stools (in different rooms respectively), toilets for the ladies, pukies, and poopies (i know, but it kinda rolled off my tongue), a dozen or so booths that line either sidewall of the bar, a plasma screen mounted in each corner, one or two bartenders, with an eager bar back waiting expectantly (sometimes unexpectedly) with towels or stack of sullied beer mugs, ashtrays, a chalkboard with beer listings (but no prices;don't worry, they're overpriced) and dim lighting because we drinkers need to keep the light out so if we are drinking before twelve (or while the sun is still up) we feel that we are falling into social norms and when the sun does go down we don't really need to discern facial imperfections between each other by turning up the dimmed lights (remember when i said that the patrons are probably better looking than whoever occupies your residence?).

it's a place to unwind, to escape, to pretend like you're just one of the guys (or gals). i can't explain the atmosphere poetically, i can just give you the feel of the place. i'm sorry, i'm sure that poetics would make the place seem something more tangible. i wish that it could be someplace with a definite meaning that in which i could convey. it's not. it is just a bar filled with people that want relief from the nine to five, having weekends off and then hitting the streets early monday morning to repeat again and again throughout the year. the people there have their expectancies, but are usually disappointed, with a world view that is a little pale and jaded (that doesn't make any sense, literally, but it makes sense to me and that's what counts, right?). they, like me (and most importantly, they like me), want the world outside the doors of q. to be silent until they want of conversation that is beyond their bar stool mate's comprehension (that not being intended to express that their bar stool mate is not able to understand). it's beautiful. it's dirty. it's where politics and religion never have their say. it's the when between m. and i. it's...well, my kind of place.

so, you know the landscape now of the bar i frequent. wow, it feels nice to just to put it out there. i'm sure that you have favourite haunt. a place where you go to forget your 'have a cow's' with your respective others. where you can drink overpriced alcohol (i drink bass ale and chase each bottle with jameson, about 8 dollars, if ya wanted to know) and commiserate about the sorry state of your local football team's affairs. maybe you call your haunt a pub (i.e., public house), or your 'dive' (i.e., dive bar). you all have one, but if you don't, hop a train after your next fight (there, i said it, fight) with your 'love you always, but hate you sometimes', and get angry at something else, be it a sporting event or any event...you'll thank me later.

p.s. i can't wait for the baseball season.