Fly Me Away

The little drops and laughter flutters
how my heart dissolves
my legs begin to shake.

This wet cold atmosphere can become a major problem
once I return I don't think I'll turn back.

One time I heard a man singing from the apartment next door. It was awful and out of tune. I never thought I'd meet a person who willingly sings and expresses themselves like that, until I saw them on the street. The voice was a kind, youthful tenor. The body was a sluggish, older, black man with a white tangled bird and a black streak racing down his chin. His eyes looked sunken into his skull and his lips were chapped and red from dried blood.

He willingly sang while I took a drag from a cigarette. Once I passed, he coughed and snapped instantly out of his immense dream. He took one look at me, grabbed the cigarette from my lips and snubbed it out on the curb.

"Don't do this to yourself." He said.

I froze in instant shock and terror.

"Our voice is one of the finest gifts a person underestimates. To pollute it with such filth and disgust is like spitting on a blind beggar. "

With that he started right up again and slowly gimped away.

Prophesize

The sun, the moon, the beautiful sky
in no way reflects my deviled eyes.

I wait and wait, until it's done
what beautiful motions, what terrifying light.

It rains and rains
but won't get wet.

We cry and cry,
with immense regret.

What happened to those days
when the sun would set?

Now stands a cloud of smoke,
red purple mountain majestic death threat.

Here we are with nothing to lose
the green grass slowly turns.

The milk curdled over night,
the glitter from our pours disintegrated.

What mortal fight is alright
can become the ultimate retreat.

The wonder of this world,
the everlasting regret
becomes the present
the present folds into the past.

With one breath
one blow
dust will cover the earth
everyone will be silent
marveled,
malignant
magnified
and
magnificent.

What, What?

I know now what I was meant to do long ago.

For it was told in the old testament and I'm a man of my word.

People used sacrifice as a blessing, but to me it's self pity. While it might be right, I still feel sick about it. The swirls in my head, the cold shudder, the harsh gravity of the situation pulls at my heart knowingly haggling my dreams. It's whether or not I want to step forward and leave it all behind or face the music and hope for a blessing in disguise.

My faith has long been denied, my prayers barely answered. The God I believe in sometimes becomes a genie substitute that I don't fully respect until I step outside my bubble, my love, my life, and evaluate the entire situation.

What happened to my confidence? What happened to my happiness? I never used to whine about the same things. I never used to worry about making a name for myself. The savings, the life I arranged for myself was pretty straight forward, and yet, almost two years later I've dug myself into a hole and am struggling to get out.

I feel at one with the earth and hold nothing but positive light in my soul but it's my mind that blackens the heart. The negativity, anxiety and stress hold me back from any chance at a real life.


The rain cleanses the earth
but the mud dirties the pavement.
What else can you do but watch as the sun hardens it into clay.
Eventually that clay is scraped and removed
but it's inevitable
it will rain again.

Wet

The only sounds you'll hear are the drip, drip, drip.

Bound and gagged, while lying face down on the dirty cobble ground I contemplated the fight. The inevitable struggle to break free, to sit up or to even find new view but instead I lied still. The heavy rain pour contributes to my prisons soundtrack and yet I'm more over joyed than unhappy.

Here in this small dark cellar is my home for God knows how long and I may never see sunshine but it's okay because I know that my family is okay. Specifically her.

The ground has slowly eroded around my body and the mud between bricks seems to be seeping through the cracks. I don't know how much longer I have before it sinks but I do know one thing. The man was right. The man with the dark shroud. The man who brought me here. Who sought me out and decided I was the right candidate for destruction. The one who warned me vicariously that the last sound I'll hear is the drip....drip....dri......p.

Bufferfly And The Bee

A butterfly flutters while a bee flies, but who says the flutter doesn't bite?

A rose is a standard, a dandelion is a weed, but which one is more beautiful against a lovely green?

To hide is to weep, to love is to creep.

Tye died, and tongue tied, I looked up and saw a smile.

Quick to anger and easy to please. Who says you can't hold the world in your palm?

Angelic, holy, lost and lonely, dark over comes light while it slips through the cracks.

Smoke, a bar, french music, so bizarre, I stumble and I fall until I reach the other wall, I can't seem to see, my words are much to weak, but somehow I luck out. Entwined in mine, his hand.

Broken Words

Wooden rattles,
stick and stones,
hyku's and broken bicycles.

These are the moments of truth.

When snow and dust,
cloud into one,

Nobody's ever really safe.

The beginning melts,
the end is near,
trust your instincts,

You'll never be the same again.

Jumbled words,
leak like rabbits,
tears on pillows,

Remind me of the sabbath.

If this planet ever really cared,
we'd all be miraciously bored.

Throw your trash,
eat those souls,
pastors preach,
but it's nothing but words.

Eat the rich,
steal from the blind,
a rotten apples just as sweet,
but dollar bills get you by.

Once more, cried the lame,
no more, cried the crowd,
but as they stood and watched,
the man became more powerful.

The dogs howled,
the wind blew,
but nobody heard her screams,
as the man wrapped her nylons around her neck.

A cigarette lingered,
the trash was pungent,
berets and horizontal stripes,
baguetts and faggots,
oh the life of a normal society.

Black eyes,
rosy cheeks,
blue lips,
pill popped.

Her firey hair,
the alagash white,
I knew she was in for a fight tonight.
Little did she know I had a ring in my pocket,
that was until she stuck my dick in a light socket.

Pro's,
ho's,
know,
by,
now,
how,
the,
little,
red,
girl,
got,
home.

Anxiously I walked through the woods. There, I saw a man who had been beaten over the head and possibly raped. Never do you see a man with his pants around his ankles but in this case you did. My first thought should have been police, but instead I couldn't wrap my mind around the people who would have done such a thing. I wanted to scream, but instead I moved closer and touched the purple body. It was like an icecube, hard and clamly. His fearful eyes glared up at me as if they were screaming for sympathy. So I pulled his pants up, shut his eyelids and kissed him on the cheek before I went my own way.

Get A Grip

Something about an old jukebox, a sweaty wood interior, with incense burning, cheap whiskey drinks and small glasses of red wine overflowing from the drunk waitresses drink tray makes me smile.

I remember fluttering feathers, twirling pasties and ambiguously gay folks laughing and drinking casually throwing their money at the sweet sexy females turning on both gay and straights.

This was before the modern day Pussycat Dolls and films like Burlesque. Before most of these kids were born. Back when the economy wasn't failing miserably and people didn't worry about naturally disasters and terrorist attacks.

It was a time when street players fiddled on their violins and particular alleys housed cheap Gypsy folks who wanted nothing more than to celebrate and dance.

The true medicine to forget troubled times.

Ambience

It's all gone. From the day that we visited that awful space I knew we were done for.

Now desititute with no money, little business and a career starving atitude I don't believe good things are heading this way. It was bad enough a year ago facing the storm but now things are clouding up and the snow is falling over this sunny setting.

How is it that everyone else is getting that premium package but my partner and I keep missing the delivery?

What once was fine is now afloat.

What tears have dried will now come out.

While smiling eyes are tearing up blood,

The rest stays quiet,

All is done.

The Rain

It was one of those fall brisk days where the leaves turned yellow. When they hit the ground every footstep found a crunch underneath them.

Half awake in study hall hell I was praying to God for anything amusing or worth my while. Where were the Michael Meyers moments? You know, the ones where you're sitting in class half awake and turn to see a masked creature staring at you through a window before being interrupted by a teacher. Those are the things I live for, but instead I dream hopelessly to exit not only this lulling nightmare but this terrible town.

The only somewhat exciting tale this town has is a house by the freeway. Unlike any other house this one is barely visible due to the shrubs and twisted tree's that cover its secrets.

The best part of our horrible winters is the fact that the trees die and reveal this two story monstrosity that has sunken deep into the earth. You'd think it was melting.

My friend Sarah and I went there once. It was raining which meant the sky was cloudy and dark. I brought my video camera and a flashlight and we dared ourselves to check it out. While other cars zoomed by, we boldly stepped into the thicket to investigate. Inside the broken windows were flipped mattresses and old furniture that had rotted away. It was almost like the abandoned house was still occupied but we were both too afraid to step any closer. When we finally did, a woodland creature scurried along and scared the shit out of us.

I guess we're not survivors in the horror universe.

Why?

What is it about pain that makes our lives so interesting and unique. Without it, we'd be bored, unimpressionable, individuals.

Sometimes when things get problematic or people often become confrontational, I feel a murky thick blackness brewing in the bowels of my stomach. It feels like evil, but it's not. Instead it manifests into blind rage that has only intensified since moving to this dynamic city. Something about the people, the transportation, the competitive nature brings the worst out of people and instead of a healthy east coast "I don't have time for you," people on the west coast manage to lecture you about the time they don't have.

It's a fascinating subject. You'd think that they would wise up, take a hint and forget about all of the complaining, yet I think it's an attribute that people develop while living here. Everythings hard, no one's hiring, driving is awful anywhere, and language barriers are spreading across the globe.

Maybe the fear of the unknown and uncertainty in people is what sets me off.

As I contemplate all of these things I have to hope that things only get better and that this guard/wall that I put up will only disintegrate over time.

Until then, pain is all I can learn from.

Addict.

There is an addiction inside every one of us. Whether or not we want this addiction to filter out through our private life is up to us, but every one's got something. I used to think I had an addiction to alcohol, turns out that it's the easiest addiction to pin on someone. Especially if it runs in your family.

People know when they're alcoholics, they just choose to ignore it and cover up the pain by drinking it away and turning themselves inside out.

When was the last time you evaluated your self?

If you don't think you have one of the major addictions then check your house. For me it's always been a rotating door. Some people call it a hobby, but mostly it's an addiction that can't be corrected. You could remove this symptom from your every day life, but you're sure to just get right back up and start a new collection or hobby.

For some, it's knitting. Others, it's a comic book collection. I know a few people who even collected old Vanity Fair issues.

Me...it's always been something. Now I say films. I can't for the life of me pass by a Best Buy, Target or a video store without looking.

Just the other day I could feel my mother starting to snap because she couldn't go shopping. After all isn't that what vacations are all about?

That's a whole different discussion altogether.

For now, I'll say it's safe to have these addictions, some more lethal than others, but in the end an obsession, a craving or a strong wanting need for something leads you to your addiction and any therapy in the world won't cure you of wanting happiness.

Sweat

Sun hits my body. All I can think about are the two hard slender physiques near and dear to my balcony.

Why is it that sex is constantly running through a males mind, but they never once decide to peak inside a women's perspective? Do the ones who alter themselves to become more feminine still develop non existing hard-on's, or are women better at hiding it?

Where there once was a gentle thought now lies dark and devious deeds created by adulthood and feminist empowerment.

A swan is as beautiful as a rose until it grows older and withers before our very eyes, then it becomes a foul and disgusting inanimate object smudging everything in its path.

Does it smell as sweet once it's gone? Perhaps, but it will always behold a magnificence people can't quit let go.

Love To Love You Less

Funny how little things trigger a memory so monumental that you have to capture it before it slips away.

Rufus Wainwright.

Would have never known who he was until I met Emily, Bryan and Sarah. Basically, they were the Pittsburgh crew that invaded Minneapolis slowly and eventually one by one dropped out, only to return back to PA.

Emily, was rude, blunt, and brassy. She was always my favorite. She spoke what was on her mind and didn't play into the bullshit that most people fed you after a harsh break up or an abrupt ending to a friendship. She always had faith in me and pined with me over hipster boys and the electricity that once surged an amazingly fresh and new city.

Sarah, similar to Emily was unapologetic and carefree. The thing with her was that she was a tough case to crack. While I had a friendly work relationship with Emily, Sarah was Emily's roommate who instantly caught my attention. She reminded me of a brooding Kristen Stewart type who looked right through you and figured out your intentions even before you spoke. She was brilliant and eventually became my number one devoted fan. She loved listening to me talk about love, life, and all the dreams I once had for myself. Not only did she support my verbal diarrhea but seemed to be the only one who understood what I was saying half the time.

Brian was the most criminal of them all, because unlike the other two, he introduced me to my first love...Beauxford. From the moment he introduced me to a strangers birthday party at a dank bar I knew by accepting this invitation that I was stepping outside myself into a world unfamiliar. Long after the break up and my neurotic distancing from everything that reminded me of my first love, Brian felt responsible for my break down. Funny thing, I never resented him for it, but owe him everything. Without him none of my life experiences or true personality traits would have shined through and made me the person I am today.

Soul Sucking

Single man hit every raw nerve I've been feeling for the past month. While it became a beautiful tender emotion, the cut is exposed and I'm slowly bleeding out my brain.

Neighbors are having a domestic dispute but I still can't help but wonder whether or not my decision was the right one. I accomplished something, yes, but for what price. I've moved away from the family, the expectations and the hate but now I'm clouded with unhappiness and exhaustion.

Is there ever a happy medium where I work and come home feeling satisfied? I'm starting to wonder if I too suffer from a bi-polar disorder or if it's all in my head.

All the smoke and alcohol affect my brain and it slowly becomes mush. But what is it that I'm so unsatisfied with? When I was back in the Em, en, I woke early routinely, drank coffee and returned to my apartment somber and rested. I suppose those were the times I was being provided for. Now that I'm on my own the stress and grief that comes with growing up is building and I can't rely on school or my parents anymore.

Is this what's happening to our society. Each generation becomes lazier and lazier by depending on school loans or an education to get them where they need to be?

It's all a gamble and a degree doesn't necessarily get you to where you need to be. It's doing something about it that sets you apart from the weak.

Pandemic

This itchy, dull, ceramic world can't hold the emotional roller that's burning across my chest. Once again I've had too much caffeine and the idea of answering to someone on the day that I have off is maddening.

I do not have patience or politeness when it comes to the single day which belongs to me. Even if I plan on nothing, it's still better than working. This high demand and wanting pushes me farther away. The emptiness, the black hole. The anger consumes me. I feel it inside me. The hurt, the fear, the rage. Something I've fought good and hard to bury is resurfacing. It won't be contained for much longer. I just need to get out and away from all these mother fuckers.

The Couch

I watch her sleep on the couch as I drink the last of my plastic bottled whiskey, chased by some malt liquor shit.

I wonder if she knows. If subconsciously she can feel my eyes beating down on her like the sun on a beach going bikini babe along a Mexican playa.

The subtle whimpers and the slight leg tremor fascinates me.

I wish I could watch her dreams.

Mumbler

I came, I saw, I'm over it.

What once held a slight spark of creativity and interest, has been extinguished.

I'm a sitting duck for mediocrity all because my brain is too weak to function and my heart stopped palpitating.

I love the lazy life of boozing, loud music and friends but lately I've fallen victim to weed, routine and eight to four at a vegan bakery.

This change of scenery hasn't been working out like we thought and the best thing to come out of it is a new face that's filled with excitement when I'm at the door.

Is all the bullshit worth it? Should I run away and disappear?

Why is it that we strive so hard to make friendships but once any bit of effort is involved we throw in the towel and say fuck it?

I can't resolve any issues and my writing has suffered because of it.

I'm a wingless bird tripping on a telephone wire, waiting to be executed via electricity.

Some, dumb, luck, keeps puffing everything up but once it has come we'll all be chum.

Abyss

I'm in a black abyss. Pretentious, no. Just a feeling of solitary and confinement. I'm literally busting from my pants and viewing pictures of a better life. Why am I here? I've almost lost track and feel the empathy oozing from inside. For a while there was some excitement. Now the fear of becoming an adult and the proximity of one year approaches and I've looked at my life. I've realized nothing has been accomplished.

I have this complicated love in my life but every day with this person is like a roller coaster of anti-depression pills. I never know if it'll derail or keep winding the happy track. It mostly falls off course and relies on me to pick up the pieces. I can't do everything.

These writings have stopped for quite some time. Maybe it's the distractions of family visits, old friends seeking me out. Or maybe I'm too self absorbed into the health conscious decisions and creative ideas that brew in my head. I can't remember the last time I paged through a good book. To be honest, the only thing I'd enjoy reading is a picture book that somehow became repressed and surfaced just recently.

The book is called Slugs. With some impressive investigation I find that it's just as horrifying as I remember. Children do disgusting and horrible acts to slugs until they are manifested, life size monsters twisting and pulling at the children in an act of revenge. A cautionary tale, would be an understatement. Now I remember why I never helped my mom garden.

It's funny the things we like to forget. The things we get excited to remember. The things we're ready to dismiss.

Mum

My mother has died...

In my room, the one I grew up in, I scavenge through all the empty memories that mean nothing to me now. Old letters, Debbie Gibson fan club stickers, and all the 45's and original LP's you could imagine. They are stored like a library against the yellow painted walls. I grab one randomly and put it on. What a surprise...it's Personal Jesus by Depeche Mode. This song does nothing but frustrate me more. As it progresses, my anger turns to hatred and the hatred fuels the rage inside my stomach. According to the music I start shredding my memorabilia, pulling out records, bending them in half and ripping fuzzy posters off the wall. I can't stop. I empty the drawers out onto the floor and push my mattress to the floor, pulling off the sheets. What happened next was a surprise but I couldn't fight from dancing. Most people in this moment break down and cry but I put all my emotions into the beat of the song and rub my hands all over my body as if the song was turning me on. "Reach out and touch faith" I scream as I break into the Molly Ringwald 80's dance from Breakfast Club. I can't stop myself but my clothes start to fall off and soon I'm jumping around my overturned room in nothing but a pair of panties and a bra. I pull at my hair and dig my nails into my thigh drawing blood until the song comes to completion and I am left with mascara stained tears racooning down my cheeks.

I miss you mom.

The Dream

Sometimes I don't know what I'm getting myself into. Just when I start to settle in and feel comfortable, I'm yanked out and thrown to the wolves.

Why couldn't I just have picked a more "realistic" setting and career. There are millions of people just waiting to be discovered and the chances of this lone actress is far and few between.

I thought, for just a minute, even a nano-second that I could change my life for the better and become a better person. Shows what I know...I'm an unmotivated girl living in a fast car, bumper boat town. If I don't have my gaurd up or even a fucking tube of lipstick in my purse, they'll throw me in the dungeon and have my female parts castrayted for the world to see.

I'm not ready to sacrifice my lifestyle. I'm not ready to give up on love. I think the things I love the most are the things that hold me back. There is no best of both worlds, it's one or the other. Sink or swim, dive or jump...but beware of the sharks who crave for fresh meat.

Over Hung

Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. The side that faces a cracked disco mirror, mutating my split reflection like a Jekyll and Hyde.

In the mirror I saw a girl I hardly recognized. The wholesome brunette that used to smile back is now a bleached out has been with pink lipstick smeared around the lines of my lips indicating anther's mouth was there. Who knows who he was, or if it was even a man for that case. I've been known to kiss anything these days that show me some sort of attention or affection.

Under my blankets is the wrinkled 80's prom party dress that is ripped in the back and there are runs in my fishnets achieving that overall punk rock girl look, but it was not meant to be intentional. And while other girls might strive to achieve this look, mine was forced upon me.

I can not remember the details of last night, only memories. The drinking, the partying. Pill popping, nauseating, vomit inducing after glow while swapping spit with a pimply faced teen age boy delivering pizza's to our den of iniquity.

On my hand is a phone number written in sharpie, but the last two numbers are too smudged and I can't figure out if they end in zero seven, or eight and two.

Littering my floor are booze bottles, overthrown blankets that took part in a passion throw down no less and peanut shells from our last call post drinking chow.

When will I ever learn to throw it all in and reform to the poster girl my parents once wanted me to be?

No, that girl is dead. The only one that remains is the one in the cracked mirror. The girl with champagne coursing through her veins, with powder dried in her nose. The girl whose heart is bleeding but can no longer feel.

I am that girl...

Van Winkled

Last night I fell asleep to a bottle of tequila, a handful of mixed party drugs, and one slowly exhaled bong hit.

This morning I awoke to whole new universe...

I never used to believe in the story of Rip Van Winkle, until my elongated slumber transformed me to this cavernous new future. I was surprised to see the rotting house that I had been passed out in last night was still standing, but the damn thing was using its last ounce of life support until I awoke and it all collapsed on top of me. Luckily the rotted wood and moldy walls erupted into powder when they hit me and I wormed my way out of this foreign home stay.

Where there was once paved roads is now dust covered gravel, where there was once vibrant trees lies oily rotted roots.

What happened to this beautiful place that I once despised completely? If I would have known the outcome of this damned civilization I would have played a part in changing history, but instead I sway back and forth, weak from my rest and hung over from my partying.

Where are all my friends? How did I survive? All questions that should be answered but then I think back to the collection of stories I used to read. 1984, War of the Worlds, I Am Legend....nothing ever really makes sense in those books, except the fact that there was once a "normal" civilization that rested easily. Now lies a futuristic Apocalypse where I am doomed to no less wander this strange world and come across strange, horrific things.

Will the tall dark things that go bump in the night come to collect? Or will I be the lone survivor that tends to cater more to a female protagonist than a male? If I'm lucky, I will not come across a single person in this ghost town and live out the rest of my life bored, comfortable, and alone.

No such luck. I hear a woman's voice. She is begging for help. I can't quite see what's the matter with her, but I have two choices cross my mind. Do I help an innocent face, or do I flee the scene with some sort of head start in surviving this new strange land.

I better make a run for it...besides, you can never be too careful in a foreign land and women bring nothing but baggage and double crossing trouble.

Sunny

Once the sun sets, I feel miraciously better.

The warm relfection of reds and orange burn the sinful dark and dreadful night from before. When it's bright I feel most safe. Safe from reality, of truth. From the feeders who crave new and youthful essence.

I watch the shadows move behind the Hollywood sign. From my oversized balcony which could be its own section of the tiny junior one bedroom I live in. Except it's all so different from this point of view.

With a touch of the shakes, I stub my cigarette into the overflowing ashtray and notice some of the dried blood smeared between my knees.

No matter how hard I wash, it will never ever go away....

Figoro

There's a devil that watches me from his window. Up on that hill he lives on. In that big, dark house, in that darkened atmosphere that clouds his heart. There is nothing sincere about this man, only blackness that drips like oil from his pulsating, gashed veins.

Every night a new I.V. drip of poison is pumped into his body as he smokes his wooden pipe stuffed with innocence and love.

He feeds off peoples fears and rips anything remotely personal from their necks showering him with any sort of endurance or patience that victim had left.

Even when he's not around, I still feel him slithering through the shadows. Waiting for the beauty, the honest, the young to stray from their collected groups so he can hit while the iron is hot.

I have no respect for this devil, this incarnate of weak power, this self conscious Satan with limp wrists, and a sharp nose that sniffs out fresh meat.

Katerina

Katerina,
a beautiful lost soul,
took one hit and now she's lost.

She found salvation in the clouds,
swimming, wearyingly across the ocean.

Katerina,
stands so small,
blades for fingers,
needles all around.

Where once the thought process weightlessly soared,
now sits an empty pill box with Katerina scorned.

She can't seem to escape,
the evil man with bloody feet waits.
His tattoos covers her body,
as he takes her hand and swallows.

This wonderland is a fright,
and even Alice won't follow her through the light.

A shattered mirror and disco ball,
a broken heel with fantasies of tomorrow.

Climbing through the rocky past,
finding mix tapes and false memories long lost.

So Katerina, finds her way to the bottom
only to see the smeared lipsticked reflection for what it's worth.

To her, she'd rather climb back up,
ignoring the future,
especially her self worth.

Morado

There's a man in a purple suit, carrying a brief case. On the outside are two metal dials for each clip, holding the case prisoner.

Everyday he comes into my business, sits at the very last table in the back of the restaurant and orders a plain water with a slice of lime and no ice. He then proceeds to empty the contents of his briefcase ever so carefully so that no one may see what else is inside.

From the leather case he removes a perfectly wrapped, dressed, and crust less sandwich that (from where I'm stationed) looks like peanut butter and jam. Not jelly. The consistency of the fillings when bitten proves to be too thick as it squishes out the sides and down his free fingers.

It makes me wonder why a man with such a routine and secret about him allows himself to create such a mess.

However, when he is done with this sandwich he moves on to his next victim, a perfectly stacked line up of chips. Nothing like Pringles but more like Frito's that are aligned perfectly so that each one is ripe for the picking.

A server always tries to force something out of him but routinely, he shoos them away until he has devoured every inch of his self made meal.

It isn't until he has finished his pre-cut orange that he finally takes a sip of his water, not without removing the lime first.

Curious, I watch him drink the entire glass until it is empty. He then stares blankly at the wall in silence, as if he were a mannequin, until the bus boys come around and offer him another round of water. Savoring the new water he waits until a fresh sliced lime comes his way and then dunks the moon shaped pieces into the clear liquid watching it reflect green through the glass.

Finally he orders an espresso in a cup that he supplies himself within his briefcase. Included is a white hanky that he polishes the mug with before passing it off to the server. When the espresso arrives he passes it back claiming the shot is not right. With ease I try adjusting the setting until the creme on top is to his liking and he downs it like a drunken sorority girl at a frat party.

With that he excuses himself to the restroom, while the server prepares the bill leaving the briefcase alone and unprotected atop the table.

A mysterious twenty minutes goes by until he returns, signs his bill and dashes out the door brief case and purple suit donned.

This is the complexity of the man with a purple suit.

Can't Stand The Rain

Something about coffee, and rain. Like cigarettes, they go hand in hand.

Today I felt inspiration for the first time in years. Especially since I moved to this dreadful place of broken promises and fake everything.

Today I felt more like myself than I have in years.

Time After Time

I am no longer a prisoner to my own self consciousness. I used to feel bad about myself and not realize that you were the one dragging me down, but now I'm stable and independent.

What a fool. All the times I relied on you and called what we had a great friendship. I swear the older we get the more I start to see things more clearly. Maybe it's a normal reaction to human life. Maybe that's why most people hate being alive toward the end of their life. Because they see people for what they truly are and how the world operates.

I have a hard time with your toxic attitude and the farther I am the easier it is for me to tolerate you. Now I'm here and you're here and we have this creative energy that's broken with different priorities and different responsibilities.

I am not yours! You don't own me, so stop fucking with my mind by pulling me back in the closet and smothering me with lies.

We've never been so different.

Whistle

Work provides an interesting lull, where I grab either an napkin, paper towel or an old piece of paper and jot down whats on my own mind. Everything from the six o'clock tranny named Kyle that dresses like a woman and uses the women's restroom but goes by the name Kyle, to the fucked up regulars who loiter until we close.

When I'm writing I tend to have a few tics or bad habits. One of them is tapping my finger nails against a hard surface. Something about the way my nails grow out and the sharp jagged edges drives me crazy. I know I could just cut them, but it's almost like a game I play with myself. I used to be a notorious nail biter, until I realized my teeth were already too fucked up, so I stopped. Ever since then, I think this game I play is almost like a mind bender. I tap and tap gritting my teeth anticipating some sort of breakage or bite off but they remain in tact. It gives me anxiety, especially when I see dirt under my fingernails, but I let it ride until finally I let go and clip them altogether.

Bad tic, number two. I whistle when awkward. Whenever there's a dead silence or an awkward moment with a customer I try and whistle away my hatred toward them. The problem is, that 90% of the time they begin to whistle as well which infuriates me even more. They never seem to do it on purpose, but it just happens. It's a weird phenomenon that more people have to test. I have tried it on multiple occasions and proven it to be true. If you stand in a crowd while whistling, at least one other person will start it too. I'm not really sure why? Or if it's linked somehow to our brains, but it's a proven fact. Go on. Try it.

I Dare you.

Homeless

Dazed and doey eyed on the bus, I wondered. All these homeless, schizophrenic people that board or stand like frozen statues waiting for the bus while talking to themselves. Are they really that crazy or did this city do it to them?

Honestly. I knew this girl named Abigail who was a little bit crazy and worked with me at the shit hole coffee shop/bookstore. She claimed she was in her late twenties but we all knew she was closer to mid thirties than anything. She would constantly try and pimp herself out to anyone that would listen, claiming that she was an entrepreneur, meaning, actor, singer, dancer, producer, writer, etc...

No one really took her serious and to be honest were all a little afraid of her. It wasn't until she had hit rock bottom AKA losing her home (the car she was living out of) that she finally threw in the towel and accepted a bus ticket from her family in Cleveland and left Los Angeles.

Apparently she had been living here for eight years trying to make it big. Me and a few co-workers checked out her social networking websites and were surprised to see the pictures of a fresh faced, innocent young lady who looked more her age than the thing that had been working with us for so long.

So I wondered. Did the city beat her up, or was she always like that? Are these so called "homeless" and "crazies" lying motionless on the side of the road every day people that have given away any ounce of their soul away for some sort of deal in the end? Being here for so long has almost made me forget who I was or realize the person I have become but is it all really worth it? Or will I become one of the rotting, diseased loons that have nothing but a rolling suitcase, broken dreams and a cup of spoiled coffee with pocket change floating in the bottom?

Only time will reveal its own prophecy.

Walled In

The wall is slowly coming down,
while tiny fruit flies ice skate on my brain.

Dancing complexions
and singing rains can't help drown all of it out.

Once I was a pauper,
now I'm a penniless king.

When will the madness subside?

Riddle me this?
Answer me that!

The mind bending,
soul fucking,
establishing after thought,
tends to tear away any dreams or aspirations I have until there's nothing left but a bag of bones and a major tooth ache they call writers envy.

Yes, once I was comfortable,
once I was my own sort of king.

Now I'm just words on paper.

Dunkin'

Finally deciding to make active steps toward bettering my life, I walked to the grocery store (about a mile away from my apartment) with my re-usable Whole Foods bags. I had always taken the bus, even tho it's pretty much a stones throw away.

I think people need to walk more often. It really allows for some major "me" time, to take in the sights, even if they're not so pretty and become in tune with your surroundings. Take for instance today. As I was walking I took in account all the little liquor markets and food emporiums littering the sidewalk on my way to Vons. Anything I wanted was literally at my finger tips if I needed it. Sure they are citchy, but something about them made me feel like I was in an old, vintage city. Sure it's no New York, but these things will tide me over until I get there.

Another awesome feature I fell in love with are the numerous 24 hour donut shops. Where I'm from it is hard to find a unique bakery specializing in donuts. For that kind of stuff you would have to either settle on some weak ass donut from the grocery store or drive for hours to find a Krispy Creme or Dunkin donuts. And lets face it, Dunkin is do-able, but Krispy Creme is for shit.

I'm serious about this! Donuts are my forte. Being a lover of vintage things, I have to say that donut shops takes the cake. When do people ever stop in their day and decide they want to mellow out by getting some donuts and a coffee at 3:00 A.M? I guess people do here in L.A, but I'm sure no one really thinks about it like I do (besides all the taxi drivers or grave shift employees.)

I encourage more people to take a donut break and forget all the bullshit. There's really nothing better than a smoke, an old fashioned donut dunked in a cheap (but genuine) black coffee.

It might just improve your lifestyle. It has mine.