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.