Testing the waters

May 22, 2011- Harvard Sqaure.

I forget she is there. I want to learn how to play, so badly. Just bring a toothbrush and a change of cloths, stay for a week. Trevor said it, I swear. I’m getting off at the next stop. I have so many friends who went to rapture parties last night, I wonder if anyone died. He left the silicon gel in there, man; you’re not supposed to do that. What?! Are you trying to buy weed? I was going to say something about the socks standing straight up. He’s a teacher, well no, he’s not a teacher but, that is why no one wants to be friends with her. It’s Judas’ kiss, they descend down and she puts her grimy hands all over them. He turned to give him a royal once-over and the crabs decided they like me, now. Why can’t she just live here? The center of attention, always- I mean, she made out with my mom. I know! How could the white folk let that fly? His right eye started twitching in the direction of his product-placed faux dirty do swung. The Brit’s head rolled down her arm Thank god Alyssa and Tom work, too.

Tim from MIT, his hair obscurely styled, smelt like shea butter and plastic bags. Joe was a trader and his over compensation was found entirely detrimental to the exasperated male ego. What are you looking at? Let the people off the goddamn train! You think your problems are bad? The next red line train to Alewife, it is now approaching. Rush. No, really he should drive because there are honeycombs on the ceiling.

Got drugs? The old man sees you and sees something in his past. You bring him out of retirement to them shaded aviator days. It’s the white beard with length equivalent to experience.

Look, it’s all about making money, paying the bills. Have a nice day, now. It’s a song I wrote, it’s a little country tune called ‘Someone to Turn To.’ You know, when I am sad, sad and blue. Like, James Madison, the lucky bastard paid for my education. The fiddle sand of the high school refugee and tapped his foot to a different beat all together. And it only costs $10. The round man danced to the best he jived with, clapping his hands all the while with bags at his feet, there is no reason to follow that silly ol’ palpitation. Rollin’. Where is my sunshine? Sing of her, again. Start over because no one is listening. I could ruin everyone’s career, just tell them. Was it everything you would have imagined it would be- trained selective hearing with a heavy German accent and a book of the past to make you look forward thinking? No longer on measure. The hearty laughs of the scantly clad and it is funny when they are going the same exact thing as you, the fiddle itself. When you notice no one else did, not even the flower bearing man. The world is actually all owned up by him, we just don’t realize it. That is where new morality will come- as long as it is not a prime number, we’ll be ok. Teach yourself a lesson. Yellowed teethed smile and a bowler’s hat, the accordion sings alone and silently because I always go unnoticed, depending on how you handle the jet lag. Time is pretty awesome if you go over there. Life, life, living. Except you won’t be going anywhere- so, when do you leave? Damnit, and the bike squeaked. The gay black man, the Asian, and the round man left. There were sirens and a lonely floral. Why do you say professional, isn’t that understood? Because what caught your eye, dear? I mean, it was so crazy, the tune changed with the sun and new occupancy. The truth is there, it is so totally dependant on whether or not we choose to acknowledge. Eastern European shit, until it dropped off because in order to be a pilot you need to be able to play it while he looks at you. It is that royal once over. There is an ever-present illusion, people dig it. I wrote a circus tune, you want to hear it, because it would appear that there is an addition to the crew. The blue man left. The purposeful sour note, jolly. The same bike squeaked- actually. I am orchestrating that, man. Hell be wrapped up in ivy, we are so proud. Come on, I own you, baby. True value. I still pirate all of it, grab me a milk jug and I will play you a diddy- this is awesome, right? I do it more than you; are you seeing the light? We can’t all be slow on the uptake. The blue man danced for the foreign baby, the accordion sang all by itself. Talking, talking, running. Speak with your level of tolerated grime, they approach but divert within instances. The heels, the wealth, they lead their own predestined path. So you have no plans later, want to change and meet up? We’re watching you backwards, so the birds came. By the end of it you won’t even want to play yourself. So, you’ll tell a different story, we’ll revert to the gross displays of unfortunate nostalgia. Sing to yourself, they are following close behind. He played me the Egyptian cotton, Helen, she got to fat and she danced by the Nile. He winked, a look and an invitation, just for baby Ella. Egyptian Ella, fuck a fella. ‘Excuse me, miss, do you know where the Christ Church is?’ I demand that you dance. We’re flying to Miami, have you gotten a shot of the sea?

You’re fucking yourself, you’re a business. I’m protecting my boy, he’s junk sick. You left the car running, I’m too real for you. This is dirty déjà-vu. Free samples, it’s something about the Spanish music and nicotine; you look so tragic and so commercial. A pass by, don’t sell me your product because your judgment leaves me free or burdening denial- thus, appreciated.

The ladies bathroom wall; LIFE is a process. We are a process. The Universe is a process. That’s shit. It’s all a bloody fucking process you profound bullshitter- pat yourself on the back for another motivational original. On the walls of the girls’ bathroom where we pump up each other’s inherently low self-confidence with the smell of warm piss and miss-aimed streams. The girls’ bathroom where we have blown enough coke to kill a man. Get on the red, take the green, get out. Don’t get lost, for heaven sake. It wouldn’t be worth dying. It was supposed to happen, all of it. You fuck the organic with a meaningless arms race. By perpetuating the truth you become and asshole, and only English was heard. Dress in purple there is a film on the wall, we’re so dated. Underestimate by nature. You fuck the organic. Ninety-nine cent white bread- a fuckin’ wonder. Doing a dance by yourself holding the x-rays of a test. It is purposely ironic that the orange flower of success is silk.

I hope he found the church. Look with moderate appreciation out of respect. So proud, you’re ignorant, mocking and you’ve made an ass- out of yourself. The mood undulated, fluctuates- appreciate the shit way, homeward bound ever to the next three steps. A blue beacon of ignorance, in a sea of red. Watch a livelihood be cuffed, booked, and killed- jeer in the faces. We defend the outrageous with discomfort, soothing the forced obsolescence with a uniform. A pack. Trip like we do.

Perpetuate, exfoliate, hallucinate.

Delineate the ego, your voice is so shrill and my patients have walked away. I can’t see, does this go home? He could be your father. Cover your face with your hand, whisper to our man. Be real- femme actualle. Check her out because she looks like everyone else- there is no honor in that lemming. The bike no longer squeaks and the replacement has lost the charm. Do you know where your product was made? Where the tracks were laid- for consumerism. You’d be right at home, and no English was heard. The sky collapsed with my mind attached. Do I look like a comedian? That’s a tall fucking horse, man. Mount.