Sunday, February 5, 2012

Waiting

Don't ask, because I don't know. I was just making sentences. 

Waiting



The feel of ink on the page, scratching out what it means to be real and in the world and in the moment.


Dust could settle, a window could open with a bang, a glass could break and you would see it, in an instant, no matter how long.


Write in a ledger, old but never used till now, after years of that aforementioned dust covering it’s spine, on a lost book shelf in the corner of a room of other lost souls.


But at least their pages had words on them.


At least someone wrote them.


Ledger was just made.


Made with a purpose never fulfilled.


But now it is, but different.


Not wrong, but just not right.


Its old home was a brick room across the ocean in a world where people paint how they feel on walls and shout what they know across streets.


Into the sides of cars with keys.


Into hearts through technology.


If the city did sleep, it would snore.


Rattling the moon in the sky till it almost falls.


Falls through many stars, it might one day, and crush the fair city.


And it’s fair children.


And it’s dark ones too.


Till they are all smashed into a small cube.


A cube that could fit into a giant’s pocket, if he wanted it to. 


He could carry the world in there, next to his keys and wallet, till he found a place to spend it.


Spend the world in one night on the town, but not all in one place.


He’s so glad to see you.


Another giant with world pockets, he thinks.


He thought he was the only one left.


But here you are.


Polka doted, red sundress and Mary Jane’s.


Lookin’ cute.


As a button.


He kisses your nose and tickles your ear and offers you the world, what’s left.


“Here ya go, kiddo. That’s how much I like you.”


But there are no pockets in your sundress.


Anymore.


You can hardly keep it up.


Step up these kickin’ beats and twirl with me, if you know how.


Put that away, forget it.


Forget everything you wish you knew.


Don’t drink so fast, chum.


The carpet is soft under bare feet.


It’s cream and gold and rusts swirl underfoot, thank god for that.


I thought this was a roller-skating rink.


See, there, those kids just crashed into a wall on the far side, but they don’t seem to mind.


She is unbuttoning her blouse and he wants her to, but she stops.


You would too, admit it, Sparkey.


Without me, you need therapy.


But you look good in purple, so all is forgiven.