Thunder

Swaying in the concrete of a green-lit destination, she's got her party in a bag, a relic without sentiment. The lights are always on, and you can never see her skin, metallic gold with neon lights washed on the pavement, pavement. You catch a wink but aren't such a fool to be an optimist- to think that high or low of her, not eager to be in her tryst. Like an eager set of matches only beckons to the arsonist, it's dog eat dog - ruthlessness as virtue to the narcissist. But it's not that you don't want it. And it isn't that she does. It's just what once you speak up, you know that everybody does. You have more respect for her than you'll ever let on. You know that she's got more than just her patience for a john. You know the truth that no one chooses a life of no choice. It takes a deft one to sell the soul but not the voice. You light a match & my fingers begin to freeze. You shamelessly soak up the lights of the street. It's in your off-moments I can see beyond the flame, when you think that no one is looking or remembering your name. It's in these moments I seem to do more than simply see you- it's as if I get more than I would ever dare try to. You must get this all the time, conjectures of the nature of your world- both women and men falling in love before you even say a word. Yeah, you must get this all the time, the projection of your self. Your past, history, and future, every motive to your health. It must be hard to feign a forgetting-lust so fierce. I think that that you desire more than forgiveness past these years. Do you pray for amnesia when you glance by a hearse? To eradicate the wealthy errors and to sing alone in verse. Or do you merely pray for a simple conversation? A treatise from the uneasy slick trick of persuasion. I exhale a cloud, pout gravel-scented heat; it's in the midst of these off-moments that the world seems to retreat. Back in my head again, put in my place again. You would think I wouldn't ever see you again. But here I am waiting for another lousy john- that's what they never tell you, how time slinks into dust. It's in the moments when I'm not on the ceiling wall, lacking the omnipotence to truly see it all. Watching myself from above with eyes I do not own, my own ghost whispered among a stranger's flesh and bone. But it's not all in the sun, you know- breasts slick with sweat and preemptive moans. It isn't all with one man, you know- the archetype of milled cologne. It's not all in the dark, you know- thunder can't be bought or sold. If you want the real thing, yeah you best be real careful. For now I only see the constellations of city. What it lacks in beauty makes up in electricity. Zeus has found his new equipment. A canvas sparked bright with our resistance. He paints the sky with a tempered slack, steady and patient while he peels away the black. “started out as a free write, polished a little.” November 26th, 2010