Bottleneck

We need to escape.

Just run, run, run.

Through city blocks and restaurant kitchens.

Turn left, past the tower of boundless rock.

Inside that concrete hive is none other than the swarm itself.

Buzzing its cocks into frenzies of languish and appall.

Just breathe, breathe, don't forget to breathe.

Down through the interstate, past the piles of fumes and pages of tar.

Filling lanes and lanes of time spent lost inside time spent dead.

Back to the idle home, with idle kids and idle phones.

With sequin tapestry taped to the wives bosom and the buzz is finally quiet.

The buzz left from the television screen.

Let's run, run, run.

Away to somewhere.

The T in Cursive.

You come across some simple revelation, so simple it's like tripping over the shoestring that wanders and flaps with you through a simple series of steps. You know its there, yet, you figure out ways to ignore it until you fall--not quite leaving you for stitches, but, still, it scrapes the skin enough to matter.

You figure that these philosophers and physicists are constantly figuring out how much more complicated everything in this world is, and then they go on to revise those complexities by subranching, extrapolating, and just plain damn fucking up all the those numbers and cursive T's--man, I hate those. But by the use of simple spelling, one can find out that it ain't all so crazy.

No one wants to be alone.

You can search for the meaning of life, you can sleep on it, or write a thesis in your money purged, 3rd floor condominium about the inorganic matter that seems to snap its inorganic fingers and--wallah-- you have a miracle. But throughout all that, what is it worth without the girl next door and her mixing, her mashing, and delivery of the American alphabet.

Spilling out in syllables and twisting with those apostrophes, it's sweet music whichever way it flows on translucent paper. Off her pink tipped tounge and onto this sheet of air, bouncing off in various angles and tangents, considering both the physical aspect of the words (i.e. tones, accents--british ones preferably) and the meanings set up behind them.

You can call for time alone. But what do you hope for when you're alone? Accomplishments? Accomplishing something means nothing unless it affects one soft-fleshed another in this vast, cursive world. You could write a book, but in your mind you think of nothing else than who it will change, how it will slip off the bed after they're asleep, and if their fingerprints will eventually fade off the corners of those evanished, yellow pages.

People don't call off work to get away from people, but more so to get back to whomever matters to them most--whether they realize it or not.

So lose your philosophies. Sit on your axioms and find another week to rewrite your reasoning. If you write a poem, share it with your mother. Erase your equations and dust of your winter chalk hands. And reach out for something greater than yourself.

Just make sure you enjoy it with someone.

Things to want list.

-I want to play you in a game of Jenga and then laugh when you fail and cry and run away.

-I want to hate your favorite band and then secretly create my own digitally rendered computer wallpaper of them and tile it across my desktop.

-I want to kung-fu chop a block of cinder until I build enough calluses around the end of my right hand so I can impress no one else other than myself and my grandma.

-I want to stay on AOL instant messenger for hours, no days!-- and leave absolutely no away message and keep no idle time--for the reason of throwing spite on those kids in Dallas.

-I want to wrap my entire body with microphones so I can record body language for 25 minutes during each day in order to fuse some sort of correlation between my mannerisms and my daily intake of carbohydrates.

-I want you to kick me in the shins really hard.

-I want to make pop music and call it indie while I sit in my underwear on the crusty carpet of my old roommates bedroom.

-I want to break every deadline, miss every alarm and pick up when the answering machine just switches on so I can talk over myself and be a simultaneous, multi-octave, reverb emulating jerk who lets the phone squeak because I also turn on the speakerphone.

-I want you to buy a trampoline and jump through my window at night around 3.

-I want to learn what it means to shave off whatever pinches, hurts, or stings--then roll it into a ball and throw it into the middle of a major interstate highway.

-I want you to send me a birthday card everyday and spell my name wrong everytime.

Anything else before I go?

Our Cinema.

You spend your minutes on the baseball diamond, watching the fireworks before you drive away. Your hair falls back against your crescent back, that curve so familiar.

I'll hide my hand between your curls, if you promise to watch the falling sky.

You pick your anthem in that run down sedan, a sing-along when we drive home. Let you hair fall back against that black vinyl seat. Toes on the glass and heels on the dash, fall asleep counting the falling sky. Those billions of falling pieces.

Brighter than fireworks and farther than those words choked in my throat.

Picturesque and sort of silent: a movie missing backdrops and replaced with this highway of sidewalks and driveways.

A film so surreal that you can't tell its this real life fake. These real life people playing these real life fakes. Their ghosts painted upon a white canvas that drips with sound and color.

Sound turns to music.
Color turns to cinema.

If you promise to remember your lines, I'll promise to fake this reality as real as I can.

In This Cave.

I feel calm.

The walls sit for a handful of minutes before they take their next turn.

I am silently shifting my weight from right to left, safe to hide my fumbling uncomfortableness away from the window that smiles cannot find me. The world beckons--but in your corner you escape.

It's insides leave you no less than wonder. Lungs of moss which breathe in slowly and exhale gently. That light breeze swims by your face, as you meander zestfully and lose yourself inside literature and adjectives.

If you listen closely, the carpet is rotating.

Your scarf blows perfectly and pretends to float as you test your makeshift cape. Better than red, as ominous as black, your winter sweater scarf stands on its own as you trek through green and paper pages. It's as worn in as the age that slept on it.

In this apartment, the walls bend and doors find their ways around.

You sit and think about this world and what else hides inside its fences.

Words and worlds.
Seen and unseen.
Light and dark.
Girls and boys.
Sex and love.
Tablets and Valentines.
Caves and apartments.

And then you choose to forget its bulk--how immense and complicated it is. You choose not to unravel its intricasies; instead--you find the nearest door.

Take a breath. Walk away. Paint your own portrait and then hang it on your wall.

Apartment or cave--whichever way you think about it.

Return to Sender.

When you sneak in through those trendy doors, tell me how it goes.

That cafe with its hazy brown ceiling and tattered peeling wallpaper. The usuals all at their usual spots. You tip your hat and they tip back.

And over there in that corner, crooning is that old man with his old cage of notes. In the corner, it's what used to be a piano and the player that plays its elephant keys. The old man older than old--with sunken eyes and ghost skin. That Christmas present left unopen, with his music box beating in his chest. With his hazy eyes and his fingers tapping bone on bone. Make sure you tip the man your last silver piece.

And who's that voice. It's none other than yours. And your audience--watch for Miles tonight, he'll be in that deep corner. And in his silhouette he'll slowly paint genius and whisper sweet secrets under his hazy breath. And don't forget Frank, maybe tonight he'll ask for your encore.

Dress for the occasion, slide with the crowd. Velvet hats and gloves in shades of vanilla, wear it swank and sell it savvy. Which way does that serpentine flow when they drag cigarettes away from their lips? Does it ebb to the left or fan to the right?

But don't miss a second. Don't miss a glimpse--catch your corners and snatch your senses. Ink their music into your lungs and soak their syllables into your tongue. Leave it all in your postcard sent.

Don't leave that cafe without inspiration. Don't end this letter without ingenuity.

Jordan! Help!

My head needs a trimmin'.

I got my thrifty nightcap from a thrift store.

My eyes look glossy.

Kind of like they were rolled in a puddle of baby oil in the middle of your soapy bathtub. The soap kind of makes my eyes branch out in red twine.

The twine that kind of looks like a little map, encircling this minature globe.

The kind of globe that always intrigued you as a kid, thinking to yourself, "why is Alaska so huge?"

Kind of huge like this blanket of sleep that is slowly sliding a fog of slowness over my face, wrapping my neck--procrastinating your arteries from proceeding with their daily plans--, through my gelatin-wrapped arms and over my skin-chapped knuckles.


Straight into the kind of letters that never make any sense unless your eyes are closed.

Gills.

I'll let you breathe, but just a sip.
Above and shallow, this lake we dip.

We swim again.
And down we fly.
As weightless heels,
kick weightless skies.

Dusty clouds,
and gleaming planes.

'Cause clouds down here,
will never rain.

Close your eyes and suck in deep.
Down in mud do our feet they seep.

And float in currents.
And make this wish.
We'll stream back to life
on surging fish.

Home is Somewhere.

If I could be what I wanted to be, I would be a jazz musician.

I would live in a loft high above your suburban skyline.

I would wear your urban nightlife around my neck and try on your pavement pants.

Glossy, wet, worn, they smell like the rubber that ran over them in the street next to your apartment.

I would breathe in the mist that piled the streets and follow the smoke into that hazy club.

You could tip me a dollar, and I would write you a song.

A song about indoors; one about streetlights at night; one about being nothing you expected me to be.

I would float to Japan and stay there for a year.

I would wander the streets and not understand anyone, anything, and anymore about anytime again.

I would listen to the cashier beg for my autograph and smile when the cops come to pull me away.

I would sleep on the corner and fly back the next night.

I would wait for the taxi in the pelting rain.

Soaking my urban nightlife and my pavement pants, the rain walks me home.

I would take each step up those matted stairs without much to care about.

Because you would be waiting there in cozy sheets and that means so much.

Shut the Hell up Thom.

Warning!
Advertencia!
Mise En Garde!

Don't ever (EVER!) listen to Radiohead's Idioteque when you're alone. Man, that shit makes you depressed. Well, have a nice day.

Feed your soul a sandwich.

Tear your hair.
Erase your face.
Finger your earlobes.
Make yourself a sandwich.
Or which one was discussed?

Did you dance as much as you could?
Did you let your shirt fall off?
Did your shoes crimple and crumble?
Did your hair wave in your face?
Did you wave goodbye?
Or which one was discussed?

Through the threads of your shirt.
Through the laces of your soles.
Through the crevasse in your bellybutton.
Through the enamel of your front two teeth.
Through your etheral soul.
Or which one was discussed?

Aseptic Arse.

I don't drink. It's just something I don't do. But still, honestly, at this very moment, I could use a scotch. I don't care how rancid, burning, bitter, scandalous or ridiculously good it is--my brain needs it. Mindless hours gape their mouthless jaws at my mangy frontal--as I sit and ingest, minute after minute, the aseptic air that circulates my comfort zone.

My job is simple. Cut. Paste. Ala cut. Ala paste. Ala what? Al-a-waste.
That's right, 15 dollars a pop--I am a dirty computer whore in the crimson district of this biotechnology pimp house. Obviously you think I'm complaining. And I say to you: correct. But for 15 dollars an hour, why wouldn't you care for such mindless work? Well, at the moment the witty corner of my flacid brain has caught a cold and deflated. Instead, I will answer you with this:

My brain is:

a) pink (but grey!)

That is all.