Bicycle

I've never been very good at riding a bike without holding onto the handlebars. Perhaps it was my lack of balance that kept me from lifting my arms to my side like an airplane and gliding along the road as I'd seen many people do, or my inability to suppress the fear that my steering wheel would start to wobble and toss me sideways from my bike into the ditch. I had attempted it; holding my breath and concentrating I'd quickly let go as if to startle my fear, the wheels of my bike spinning quickly along the asphalt as I inched like a shadow beneath the street lamps, and for one brief moment I would lay my hands to the side and fly. Then the weight of my body would shift in uneven ways, the bike wobbling almost uncontrollably, forcing my hands forward again to stop my moment of flight. Once I had actually been successful, in fact, I was able to ride my way home almost entirely sitting up, hands to the side, my shoulders leaning backward as the wind curled around me through my hair. One chance of many, my hands lay to my side and I floated freely on my path, the excitement of the fall residing in the back of my mind. I felt like a weightless body on a unicycle, a mind atop a mountain, a flag waving carelessly in the breeze as I flew so close to the ground. I was flying without wings, but I was still holding to the ground, and from it I was finally lifted from my fear and the urge to hold on.

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A little writing from my room as the storm outside passes through.

Night

He watched quietly from behind his steering wheel at a man licking the corner of his salty lips, listening intently to the hurried voice of the woman next to him who was telling a passionate story. Looking distraught, she dangled a cigarette in her right hand; her lips, slathered in red lipstick, beat against each other violently as she spoke, tiny drops of spit dotting the concrete. He didn't like her mouth, it looked like it knew too much shouting and not enough soft kindness or tender kisses. It knew too much about what pleased men momentarily but not enough to make them stay. Not like Christina's mouth; not like her moist, always cautiously smiling lips lightly buttered with strawberry flavored chapstick. For a moment his mind rolled back into a blissful image behind his eyelids.

He eyed the couple with limited interest as he sat inside his car waiting for his girlfriend to get off of work so he could give her a safe ride home. He didn't trust the evening that hid the danger so well within its shadows. Thinking about his poor Christina blanketed by the dark with a gun to her head, held by a man with a sweating dick in his pants made his breath weaken. He was there every day to ensure that she'd never have to walk alone at night. Even if he couldn't see her through most of the day because of her constant laboring, at least he could guarantee she didn't have to leave her fate to the night.

Christina had to quit school, sell her car, and take multiple jobs around the small city to help her father pay for her mom's hospital bills, one of which was a job working as a cleaning lady, scrubbing floors waxed with cum squirted carelessly on the carpet by patrons of the local prostitutes. He remembered her saying once before she fell to sleep, "Sometimes we're so sick of the smell that rises up from it when we clean, we just leave it there and hope no one notices." He almost smiled thinking about it, but took a drag from his cigarette instead.

She always fell to sleep as he drove her home. He'd put in Ella Fitzgerald on volume one and let her talk her eyes closed. He'd drive slower so as not to stir her, to make the moment last longer. As she crept into the corner between the door and the seat, the collar of her white shirt would lay to the side, revealing the cape of her neck and the beginnings of her quaint breasts. He could faintly smell her breath in the air as it rolled out of her like a ghost. Like a crippled child she lay there, looking innocent and delicate, sometimes on the verge of death. When he looked on her laying there, her legs bent awkwardly toward him, the light accentuating each of her tiny curves, he felt like a father witnessing the blossoming of his own child. Catching himself in his moment of perversion he'd look away and stare at the road.

Just before his own eyes began to close, he saw his sweet baby walking toward the car, her bag dangling from her shoulder, bouncing playfully on her hip. Despite the long day, she smiled toothily at him.

Peach

sweet and sweaty peach
dripping, red
sweet syrup on my tongue
with tender bites
eyes closed
savoring
resisting each bite
sucking it dry
tongue touching
the bitter seed within.

Fingers

I want to peel back the skin
to see if I'm inside the wet, tangible mess
clinging to the bitter bone
like teeth gnawing through,
little catatonic fingers
suffocated below the surface.

Living in Dreams

Ever since I was a child I have been fortunate enough to remember, and often times re-dream, many of my night wanderings. Sometimes I would wake up from a dream, believing I was still exploring the made up spaces of my mind only to feel the grip of reality pulling me back down toward my pillow. Most often I sadly realized it was all a fabrication.

Not to say all my dreams are good...

The worst nightmare I experienced when I was a kid involved a maze and the villain of the popular Popeye cartoon...I think his name was Bluto. Several times over I would find myself running through the maze, its walls glistening with tessellations as the villain chased me further into confusion and absolute terror. I never understood the reason I constantly found myself in this situation, why as I ran through the maze I was bombarded by Bluto's voice echoing off the walls, screaming my name and threatening to "get me". Not once did I ever escape his wrath, but not once did I ever actually face this character.

It's been a while since I had that dream, which I'm very glad for because even today I think it would still wow me. Although, now I often experience a rising of the dead in my dreams. As of late, it's been the reappearance of my childhood dog. I still wake up believing he's still alive and have to remember that he's been gone for four years now...five this coming September. But in my dreams he's still there, placing his head on my feet.

I don't really know why I'm writing this, it has nothing to do with my bad poetry or my short stories, but it's definitely something I've been pondering lately. I've recently had two people talk about horoscope to me, and while I don't believe in that sort of thing, I do however believe in the power of dreams to not only tell you what's up in your own mind, but also what's coming for you.

...if that has any truth to it, then I suppose it means that I dislike seeing things I love disappear (something occurring more often these days) and I'm about to find a wind tunnel underneath my house...

Just a small thought for the moment.

Her eyes focused above the water as she soaked in the bathtub, her toes poking above the water next to the faucet, hurriedly pouring water down her legs. She lived in an old apartment that came with a short tub with lion's feet, it curled her body at her torso into a sitting position on her back.

The water ebbed and flowed over her eyes, unflinchingly she peered up toward the tiles; pink and moist. She thought about the bacteria and tiny worms that were crawling around on them, mating and eating above her head without making a sound. She thought about the neighbors next door who fell into the throws of passionate sex every Friday evening, which she could hear faintly if she sat in her living room with the lights out. When she heard them, she enjoyed thinking about what position they were in, if they made love on the embroidered table top she saw when she passed their apartment when the door lay open. Could they smell the sex on it when they ate Martha's potato casserole? She knew that was their favorite dish because she smelled it flowing through the vents almost weekly.

Her nose caught the last moments of air before she was sealed into the watery womb. She listened closely as the water continued to pour in; everything always seemed louder under the water. The pouring, the creaking of the house, her thoughts. Beside her, her arms moved freely, lifting upward as if an invisible hand was pulling her to the cold safety of the bathroom air. She thought that this must be what it's like to be in a car as it falls slowly to the bottom of a quiet river. She closed her eyes and imagined herself sitting in the passenger seat of a 1968 Chevelle with leather seats and an old dial radio as it drifted into wet darkness.

Her body began to quiver, reacting to its lack of air. She stopped dreaming, opening her eyes and pushed herself up, her nose hovering above the water that rippled from the gust of her hungry breath. Drops of water collected on her eyelashes. She looked down at her body idling in the tub. Her skin was pale until it got to her nipples, which covered most of her petite breasts. They were the color of ground nutmeg, soft under the warm pool. She stared at them as they peaked above the water with her breath, the sticky bubbles gathering around them. She shut her eyes, wrapped in warmth.

The Silly Reason

She sifted her fingers through her pocket, the cold coins warming in her hands, making awkward music as she walked down the sidewalk peering into the windows of the old Victorian-style houses. She thought for a moment, what it would be like to run around in the well-kept gardens, traced with bushes short enough to show off the landscape yet keeping it closed, private. She thought about the warmth of the sun, radiating through the canopy of the tall oak trees, bending over the delicately painted relics dangerously, like old men leaning on their canes; their bones cracking under the breath of the wind.

It was raining, so she hid underneath her hood and wrapped the scarf around her nose, breathing in and out, the moisture from her mouth collecting in microscopic beads on the cloth. She was half-way to class, but had not completely convinced herself to attend. She was becoming wet from the rain and the coffee shop on the corner emanated a warmth welcome to any cold stranger walking along the street. Come in, have some tea, it said simply.

She laid down a dollar and two quarters by the register as the young man behind the counter, his beard hovering above the steam from the freshly brewed coffee, prepared her cup; she wondered what it smelled like. She thought about a woman nuzzling his face at night, her nose receiving the smell of warm, buttery coffee as she fell gently to sleep. Perhaps the aroma was enough to ignore the acne scarred face beneath it; the enticing scent of a french roast mingled with a whiff of faint vanilla. People fell in love for weird reasons.

Whenever she skipped class she thought about the lesson she was missing; what were they talking about? Was it noticeable that she was gone? Did they think she was sleeping and not fully awake, experiencing the earlier hours of her morning exploring directionless thoughts on the bearded barista? She hoped they didn't find her useless or dumb.

She noticed her pocket no longer jingled; it was a silent hole with a silent, sweaty hand coiled inside it, sleeping like a rabbit. Sipping her coffee, she held her face above the steam, letting it cling to her; the moisture warm and suddenly cool. Perhaps she too could be loved, perhaps she too just needed to offer a silly reason.