[P.S. This was written in 1-2 format, between me and Omar. I am one, then he is two, one again, and so forth.]
I’ve never been good at writing under pressure, but here we are.
I’ve never been good at the novella, but they’re still in my hair. A superficial aire, this I bring myself to, upon whence the tea kettle sings and I know. I know this, is life as expected. But we’ll sit on the table till dusk and try our hardest to make turn the volume down, and when the dawn comes we’ll be under the influence of an earlier metaphor. Somebody tell them to turn it down.
But a necessity would be to turn it up two more notches. Sometimes, when the world can only butter their bread and shuffle their newspapers from the front porch, we just mingle sharps and flats in rickety snowflake contrast, we’re untalented but we’ll be damned if there’s a God to correct us. Sometimes there’s no “I” in arrogant.
Kick it up another flavor and make it real. But that’s the voice in my head speaking, in geometric tongues to an audience. An argument ensues, and every moment spent follows this trend. While you strum some trembling chords behind me, each one sounds anew, and with speed you make haste, and with sound you make grace. I’m listening, not rambling because I want one too.
Well, time isn’t graceful. And I’d hate to make any more chords than I already have, because I’ve got nothin’ in my pockets or any coins to spare. You hear me? The Laundromat is sky-high this afternoon. One shirt can be pressed for seventy five cents if I please. Haven’t you noticed though, how no one feels patriotic enough to wind up flags above their doors, and me my ivy trellis is drab as ever. Peach colored shutters burning under the disapproval of this month’s eleventh sun.
So the song changes again. Just add some reds and whites and this whole countryside gets a fever. Have you noticed how lucky we are? Beneath the faux lintel of the road that meets the road that softly cuts the sixth highway in two, lies a large green ornament. And if you bring your eyes to stab beyond it, lays the influx of electric. The modern architect builds tubes of steel, so eclectic, a testament to the beauty of this greater city area. And above us all lies a sweet halo of grey, and when birds fall down they grace the rolling brown hills with a kiss and a smile. At two hundred and forty miles per hour. Through the halo, that christens us in the city of god, we will learn, we will love, we will work. We will cover the earth. I can only hope we choke on it.
I can see it now as fully cooked cows graze on invisible greenery in the hungry man’s favorite carbonated boxes. With words like “grand” and ‘overhaul” pasted along oak fire department buildings we try devouring yellow scalding slices, of equality and biscuit eyes, which seem to linger in rough pink hills in the back of throats. All these esophagus landmines. All these needs for gasoline and too few rainbows among salt holes. I want to venture to the unholy red pipeline and the Gaza and to where brown-faced huskers rub corn syrup into their hands for moisture, whereas the atmosphere lacks smiling hydrogen and oxygen compounds. You want apple pie, sir – it’s in your cheeks.
Rosy as they are, I’d rather have baseball and designer blue jeans. I’d rather take my rotting corpse and douse it in Estee Lauder or Max Factor. Maybe it’s flammable, maybe it’s Maybelline, I don’t care though, because the people would pass by and love me. But where distorted guitar intervenes, no mediator is present, and I’ll use a chorus to move on. But or yet so for and nor. My sentence drags along incomplete, to make the Labor Day sale. Where mannequins smile and wave with inviting hands, hand me a catalogue and I’ll eat it. Choke a little, but all in the name of chic. Cause it’s perfect, but something’s still wrong.
His car got keyed last Saturday. I always laugh at him about it, because yeah, you’re too right about those things. Plans wander in our heads like prettily colored maps, tiny stars sparkling the way to our destination, and then there are lines drawing out cloud pictures for those two intersecting rivers and some for highways.
I picked up my flowers from the grocery store this morning. I bought some good coffee as well, well, I’m lying, it tastes just a tad lesser than the acrid flavor of piss, something I haven’t intentionally tasted though. You’re collecting taxes in rows and rows (the song is of influence) – elevators dance like cylinder animals around homo sapiens, to remind us, you know, of how available mailboxes really are. Send me a postcard or go to hell.
I’m reminded of a time in my youth , when my mother left me standing outside the grocery store, I had all this time in my palm, and I watched it as it streamed, like gold, farther away. Into the city streets, I’d perceive the passersby and the passengers, looking back at me, in my youth. And with a smile, I wondered, I would wonder, if I reached my tiny pale fingers far enough, if I could touch the face of god. And if it was smiling too, like the passengers, who wondered akin. But as the days passed by, I saw more and my pupils dilated under the fading sun, and I knew. I knew this was as close as it ever would be. So one day I stopped reaching and it began to reign.
I like chicken a whole lot. LETS GO TO BRAZOS BOOKSTORE.
We could be published there, as soon as we find a ride.
