scrambled

Musty Typists
-If my keys were typed of dust- than honey I'd be mirror to that typewriter..
The room was old. Smelt like cigarettes and stale perfume. Elizabeth taylor no doubt.
- I think I'm getting dumber. Do you think at a certain point.....you just grow out of knowlege.?
As if it were last years t shirt. sucked plum out of the life. Chess set part played. Pipe half smoked. Books around like scattered change.
Is tha a quarter stuck to your ass?
maybe it's there for a reason.
When I get to brooklyn. I'll be sure to give you a ring.
The misplaced white dial phone was off the hook again. phone out.. There was nothing more I could do. Somewhere off in the white dust were keys of metal. oil and gray.
I know.

~


The corner of 69th.
You know, I'm tryin to do my best.
And hats offto leuitenant faithful. The skin on his face was sagging around the eyes. Drooping. Being dramatic of failure..
What do you mean. You're young yet. Push out and don't be so stubborn! You could have the fucking american dream if you wanted to.
and the smile. slow and slightly rough around the edges. Why was there a smile of triumph? proud? Does no one care when the fight is over?
Looking down at slightly worn out boots. Rubber was getting loose. I should have bought a new pair when I had the cash.
Me too..
Hats high for higher hopes.
~


smoglife

is a puzzle. one complicated pattern of organizations with one. common. theme. Squares.four sides to every division. left. right. up. down.north. east. south. west.the chess board was set up side down.

when did that black pipe start looking like a rook? and then the canister of disappointments leaning to the empty side of the ''savings'' envelope. red. painted with chinese characters marching vertical.Dust spatters clogging up ones head. "I'm not smoking any more." And her lungs are cured! the errupting cancer will not spread through venting systems of pollution ANY more!

musty perfume is more than a little old. With the cursed letters of M&Q scripted across the front. yellow. more like gold from a garden frollicking somewhere with the watch chain. honey... i'm going south to try and get a cheap botle of white wine, meet me around sixish.

And the booth was closed for betting. cash crumpled into checkered lifestyles, wallets weren't necessary. nor did they bother. deep into the hunger of what was called ink. for a type writer ribbon and a chance to meet romance itself. Are you having an affair with the sun light in my warehouse windows? They boast with yellow and orange skipping hand and hand across the wood of lines. of shadows. of glimpses. of direction.and the gangly gold of a pocket-watch; sulks hungry against the thread of 8:43. "Smoking's not in my canister of red envelopes." I flick my satisfaction with a pocket changing smile. No squares on this adventure.
~

Flatbush Ave.
slouching slow. fallen in like sunk, but with awkwardness. unraveling between my fingers, I'm reaching. reaching. I talked to a man by the name of Jefferey today.
Said to come over and he'd take me away.
I went with a smile and debated awhile,
when all I could do was stay.

He ran a business down in the South District not too far away from the apartment building. Said to me: Girl, I promise you the world. Just come with me.How could I refuse? Such an offer. Such a wonder. What the proposal had to offer was more than logical. Down the half streets we traveled. Through deserted islands of soda cans and cigarette butts. Leaned me against the wall and whispered close enough to my ear, I could hear him breathing with steady orange in his cheeks to flush. "You take these words to heart. Believe what you see. Not what you hear."

The world of colors spun into no-shape blob. Dripping down the brown collar of justice while all along feeling the tingle of abscent minded amusement. Police men were not in a sight worth believing. Eyes averted while ears perverted, mysteriously hanging by thread.He ungripped my collar after a slow slouch. Breath to breathe as present was past and I never saw Jeffery again.

~


The Plea of Purple
Purple. It seemed like an innocent color and perhaps that is why she repeated the word twenty times or more. Purple. Purple. The shape of sagging from something that was once pink and perky. No, not pink. Purple. The kind of run down rash you might expect to see on the foot of a junkie. Dingy but not red.

Purple. She said it laughing contagiously but no one was sick. Sputtered up drunk, yes. No- not sick. Nothing about her was purple except the word she kept repeating. Her hair... red I think -but who could remember? The gap in her teeth was what eyes were glued to. The way she spit out language like a joke on humanity. Mine. Dripping with insult cackled directly from above where I was looking.

Purple. Nothing imparticular. As if it were an inside joke when we were facing a window. Glancing only for a moment to see what eyes may glitter when moments were recalled. But no one's eyes were glittering. Only hers. Did she stop to think that perhaps she made no sense? Did she stop to wonder if the vodka needed to be drained from the blood shot veins? No. Fluttering around a party like it was an accident of coincidence. Oh and doesn't coincidence appeal to those who wish they had control?

Purple. Purple. Purple. And then it couldn't be helped. Control of the contrary. Sputtered. Sprayed. Spat. Innocence Leaping out of her mouth and bouncing down the steps worth sitting on. Oh the ache from her mouth just couldn't stop! Purple! Purple! She kept crying out as if urgent, but ambulances were miles to be seen. Covering her arms with hands scrunched up upon her fabric. Needy. Not even bothering to cover her mouth she needed to convince, to convey, to contort her emotionless stupor into something of a plea. 'If only time could forgive me, but now that I've started, I just can't stop.'

Purple smeared all over her gapped up teeth until embarrassment was rouged on everyone's face. What to do with such a situation? Grow up. Stand up. Pick up your knees if you can't use them. Away she slipped as our bodies bruised in the heat of color.

twinging around the corner

sitting here with partner in crime. Sitting=understatement. More knees and less shoulders. I can feel breathing over my shoulder. what is she going to type next? I don't know. I'm not god. although......

it was melodical in the dark lit basement of 1040 fifth street . The blanket my partner in crime was draped in had the look of uncooked dough. A croissant in the making? heavens not that expensive.
his hair puffed black in small strands jumping out from a buried face. when did the red/orange tint go shot? bang- light killed. As if by some tragic coincidence that still hung a slight twinge-of-guilt in the corners.
Is that the sound of Rats?
crawling invisible to danger on the Other side?
No- static from my speakers.

Harmony stands jealous from upstairs.
Melody won't let them in.