Dancing Diversions and Prototypes

Just refer to me as an aces fellow~

So, it’s another round of cigarettes.

I’ve been expecting a package for the last week,

where o where could it be? I see trauma across the pacific.

A massacre of postmen, blood everywhere and my package being the prize.

I predict that it’ll arrive long after I’ve left, and maybe after I’ve forgotten it.

But here I am dreaming of summer trips,

wondering if the heat will be less oppressive on the road.

Roadtrips and boardgames at the official rest stops,

the games at your more unofficial ones.

Can’t play boggle.

It only ends badly,

usually in bitter silence and notebook throwing.

Never said I wasn’t a poor sport.

It’s not fear that I’m shaking from, it’s the excitement of it all.

Creative comments. Who doesn’t love these?

Henry raced through the parking lot, the snake was coiled tightly around his neck. Frantically, he pulled into the Wendy’s drive thru. “Can I take your order?” cracked the speaker loudly. Henry’s face was red as he barely spoke, “I’ll have a number three large, an apple pie and…”, his breath was running short, “…and… a cherry pepsi!”. The snake hissed wildly and squeezed harder. Henry spouted quickly, “I MEAN A DIET PEPSI! …diet!”. The snake eased its grip. Henry gasped. “…uh okay, will that be all?” asked the woman in the speaker. Henry shivered in fear as the snake’s head approached his ear and spoke, “AND A SALAD, MOTHERFUCKER!”. These were the last words Henry would ever hear.

-Krazbobeans is hilarious.

Vanity.

I suppose we’re drinking gin now.

Here in a crowding hallway,

and you straying from my side,

and I guess I’m alright,

maintaining the promise that our voices will soon mingle

in the low, quieted tones we’ve perfected.

Initially, I’ll ignore the group surrounding her,

but I find that one really is the company she keeps.

Leaning against your exposed brick walls

and exerting their wardrobes and words with sickening formula.

I find myself slowly abandoning any comforts I’ve gained,

realizing that no one really listens anymore.

Though my attention is immediately straying as she drags me onto what can only be a train wreck of a tale,

I refer to her lack of skills, not my own.

Every question and exchange is a prompt for this,

just excuses for her tongue to wag against sharp white teeth

and these are the motions people come to enjoy,

ones that make them feel important,

or significant,

or human.

She’s saying she knows someone from some place that I know too,

and oh isn’t it a small world

and I think I say,

“Yeah yeah it is,”

but really I’m in desperate need of another drink.

Of course, your face has disappeared into the dim

and I’m regretting these forceful nods, stripping me of skillful ways to wriggle free from her jaws.

This entire charade, because someone asked,

“How are you,”

and I never say,

“I feel like killing myself.”

How awfully, awfully impolite.

Imagine my surprise as I retreat to the bathroom

and find you hiding, perched upon the edge of the toilet seat.

Sneaky, you’re lighting a cigarette for us to share

and before I can reprimand you for those clowns you call guests, you’re laughing at me,

upside-down, kissing my head where it feels sore.

It seems I banged against the towel rack in a spell of alcoholic vertigo,

and you add,

“You’re really quite worthless,”

before scooping me up like a child from the cold tile floor.

I think I say,

“yeah, well, you’re a success,”

and you shrug your shoulders, whispering words I can’t recall.

I imagine I finally managed the stealthy breakout,

as I am stumbling in the direction of home.

Actually, you’re swerving down the streets beside me with my jacket on backwards.

Rain pours and I can’t see why you’ve abandoned the party.

I am deeply, deeply troubled by a story I read in second grade and with the liquor permeating us,

I find myself screaming at you,

yelling about the girl with the green ribbon around her neck,

who met a boy and fell in love until he removed the ribbon one dark,

stormy night and the girls head promptly fell off.

We’re so soaked at this point that our clothes weigh us down,

but still you’re laughing at this story I’ve told, mouth so wide that the raindrops fall into your throat,

contorted by shadow and hilarity, oblivious to how silent I have become.

In a day of two you’ll fly north with only three dollars in your pocket,

and I’ll be left with a bump on my head.

I rationalize that the bruises should heal in enough time for me to have completely forgotten the sounds of this laughter.

I fear that this is how fragile I have become.

I guess I am pretty worthless, “really quite worthless,” after all.

First real test. Stream of Conciousness.

I’m eating less, smoking more, drinking four cups of coffee a day, my sleeping is staggered. Starting to feel more comfortable with myself, yet more like a shell of the person I might one day be. There seem to be endless opportunities, things I wasn’t aware were even in my reach, so I’m keeping busy, staying active, and every day is getting longer, especially at night.