#heavywings

Moseying along without a clue

Ruthless and smelling of booze

In search of the next bounty to pay the bills

I get stuck dealing with cheap thrills

But I stay cool even when things blow up in my face

What is around me is the cause of my unhappiness

It’s his fault, it’s hers

I hate my body, I hate my job

It is the world’s fault I’m miserable

Holding me back from what is desirable 

My boss is an idiot, my friend is a jerk

I plod about each day without a clue

It’s everyone else’s fault that I’m hurt

What I don’t realize is I am a fool

As I continue to deflect blame and hate

To insist that the world would be great

If everything I wanted, I could create

When everything is perfect, then life can be celebrated

Yet I dance to someone else’ tune

Yet I continue to be berated

My parents suck, they don’t understand

Not realizing that it’s because of what I do

If only I had the right car, the right house

The best location, the best situation

I continue to be unaware that my strings are being pulled

By beings well outside of my control

Blinded by the media, the upbringing, and strife

I believed I was in control of my life

The facade came crashing down all around

Now that I know that control was always beyond

Yet it was out of reach and out of sight

I now know I must venture within

Color Style Experiment by tobysquid

HAAAALP!

If at first you don't succeed...you know the saying right?

 People say stuff like that with preconceived notions like, "it's fool proof, because any respectable person couldn't possibly fail a theoretical third time" Well, meet me. I'm not what you would call a first class human. I was exceptionally mediocre in high school. I prided myself on it. I took a semester of college, but was too distracted by the clear, warm California nights. I stared at the moon from my apartment porch the night before a big final and thought, "This view has got to be all the things I need to know." I work at a corner store.

But that's not what's important. Or rather who is important. Her name is Valencia. She has a last name, but god, I could say her first name all day. I Could trace it in shining gold, I could smear it in blood. I could spell it out with my lips on a piece of aged parchment. Am I in love with her? Yes....Yes?  How do you measure love? As if it was quantifiable. As If it was measured in how many times her hands go down my jeans in public places. If so, hopelessly. As If it was measured in the amount of poems she reads to me while we lay on my bedroom floor, if so, I'd say maddeningly. Have we said I love you to each other? That’s a good question. She might have whispered it to me one wild night in a taxi before crawling up my shirt and digging her turquoise nails into my shoulder blades, but I was too drunk to remember. Maybe with our eyes, Maybe with the tips of our fingers, Maybe with that Gibson she bought me for Christmas, but never with finality, like this is all a dream and saying those three words would snap us back to the real world.

One night, Valencia Braque (it just pales in comparison doesn't it?) Gazed at me with her head perched on My chest, her sky blue hair forming ringlets in the dip between My collar bones, and asked...

 "do you love me?"

And that's when everything went to shit.

Did I say I love you? Of course I did. What else was I supposed to say? She cups my chin with her hands, and the brush of her fingers against my beard sends an electric shock through every hair. “Do you love me?” she asks again, this time with force, with  burning desire.

 “I, yes…”

 her eyes are narrowing, her pupils spread like a blot of ink over her sea green irises. 

“Of course I do…”

I suppose I haven’t really thought past our little world. I haven’t gazed into the future like so many do. They have told me over the years that I have no future, and I guess I’ve come to believe them. In that moment I try to see children running in between legs, white dresses over thresholds, a mortgage, living rooms, quiet nights, but there is nothing. A void where wonders and dreams used to be. that void becomes the pupils of Valencia’s eyes.

 “Do you...love me?” I ask.

 I am at long last able to imagine something. I see a image of us, lips locked in the middle of a crowded street. People are walking by, but we are frozen. Deathly blue replaces the warmth of blood. Frost coats the buttons of my jacket. We are an icy memory, motionless in the false eternity of young love.

 Her pupils shrink. She brushes her hair back, and begins to trace circles around a freckle on my chest, looking down.

 “Haven’t I told you before?”

 “I don’t...know if I remember.” 

what I really want is to know, not if, but why. Do you remember when I ambiguously mentioned the quality of my humanity, which may or may not be pretty damn low? Well, Valencia knows this. Her parents know this. Her dog knows this, because on my first visit to her childhood home in Modesto, her father’s pressing questions about my family life triggered a breakdown that culminated in regurgitating my spaghetti and meatballs all over the family’s beloved bichon, terrance. Several broken dishes, a gash in daddy’s forehead, one stained throw rug, and one traumatized dog later, Valencia is here. Kissing me when she knows strangers are watching, screening her parent’s fervent calls, pushing me down on my shabby twin mattress, running her fingers through my coarse hair and asking questions like, “do you love me?”

“Well...remember.”

 she stands like a body from a coffin, and walks through the threshold of my bedroom door, closing it behind her. There’s the finality that’s been missing. Blood rushes through our veins. The frost on our clothes dissipates into a cloud of steam around our flushed bodies. Our lips part and we stare into the heat of the inevitable continuation of everything.

Life has a way of bringing up diverse learning experiences. Sometimes you think you are going to have a typical day devoid of excitement, but then you have your typical car accident. The excitement level just went up a notch. Depending on who you are, you probably kicked it up a few more notches than necessary with all the stress and drama. Hey, whatever works--more like, doesn’t work--for you. Someone had their car kiss my car across the side. My car didn’t mind, though her car was a bit upset at the new nose job.

The driver was more upset and her child was in the same boat. She was going to panic, but I was cordial. We talked to each other, and she calmed down a little. She was relieved that I wasn’t an asshole. It was my recklessness that created that situation, I went into her blindspot, she needed to pull out of a parking spot. I was looking for a parking spot.

Being in a hurry causes accidents. Why rush? It is one thing to be late for an appointment, but it’s another to be a reckless driver, cause an accident, and miss your appointment altogether. If you don’t want to be late for anything, manage your time better. Simple. If surprises spring up and throw you into experiences you did not plan for, just take it in stride. Life is about learning. I learned that experiences happen because there are lessons that I need.

Experiences enrich your life when you make the best of them. They hold you back when you miss the point entirely and hold to anguish, upset, and drama. The woman and her son were safe. That was the best news ever. Her car is drivable. Her lights work. My car is totally drivable, the side of it looks more rugged. I drive a jeep. I put a dent into it by accident when it was brand new because I carried a heavy guitar case. Another dent was put into it when someone at a daycare job got angry with me that I thought that smoking pot and then coming to work smelling skunky was unprofessional. I almost got side swiped a couple times on the same street that the accident occurred because of blind spots and multiple driveways, parking lots, and hurried drivers. It’s life. 

Within the recesses of my mind I hear the record

Playing only the black keys, I enjoy the sweet melody

I sink into sleep, deeper into the water