Sitting Alone by the Men's Room During the World Series

(and just now noticing how dirty the screen of my monitor is.)

 

Watching people in their cars, through glass; as they are watching me, through glass.

 

A stylized wind storm of colorfully dried up leaves and dusty leavings that are catching rays of light as they spin and swirl like mystical designs across the pages of an ornately embellished Celtic manuscript, turns out to be from a hooded man in a gray sweatshirt, sweeping, sweeping away at the contents of the sidewalk with a professional grade leaf blower.

 

I doubt if the people in the cars can see me. But it appears as though they are constantly looking in.

 

Arrived alone and was crammed into the back corner, away from the bar, (where somewhat lusty affections have, and probably will again, taken place) jammed into an awkwardly lit area between the blue felt pool table, (“This is one of the best pool tables in Chicago..did you know that?” asked one of the brooding men to the seasoned regular) and the ever-revolving door into that mysterious man cave of pungent air, wafting through, the men's room. And always careful not to look in completely or in that general direction when the door opens up and never to make eye contact. Never.

​

And watch the flocking flourish. A stone sits amidst gradually drunkening, stumbling, brooding men who are engaging in an activity at a location in hopes of weeding out that treacherous maddening loneliness, just as the mossy stone is.

​

Shear intensity surged up and forth, longways and backways into the room just as small, shiny metal balls ricochet across a circuit field and hit a motion-activated device, which triggers the overtly enthusiastic default audio track to play and signals the eagerly flashing lights of the pop-culture themed machine to activate.

The team in favor had not seen a victory of this caliber is over one hundred years.

 

That guy hasn't taken a sip from his large lemon garnished lemonade yet (two hours later).

 

The apocalypse of everyone either having sex if previously mentioned team should actually pull this shit off or everyone killing each other if previously mentioned team would falter back to the old familiar disappointment reeks through the air like some sort of impending destruction. Yet we feared that the inevitable same old shit we were all accustomed to, was drawing closer with each play.

​

And never had the stone watched, watched, watched with such a fervent, intensive focus in studying the game, the players, their beauty, favoring the oldest player of course, the balding scruffy sweet seductive catcher with those fuck me now icy blue eyes who makes you wonder if he would catch his hot steaming cum right when he... .The dynamics of that beast Crowd... The gravity and experience of just having walked down Devon again, another night, always different yet the same.

 

Everyone in their car is staring at me. How can they see through two glass panes?

This is what happens when I wear my hair down.

(This is what happens when seasons change.)

 

Free write!

 

Relieved that no one really seems to be paying any attention to me in here.

 

Shall I begin to tell you about the noun in which this event takes place?

 

I feel as though monogamy is such a dissuasion of nature.

 

I will tell you that this noun is beginning to take on a new and more excited meaning.

But I am not ready to tell you about him just yet. And I shall call him J.. You will see evidence of him in other portions of this text. He is a strange, current muse. I dubbed him, the Resurrected Muse. For a time, I thought he was lost and gone. But here he is again, resurrected and seemingly happy to see me too. And now I am getting caught in the how often is too often cycle...

 

The World Series. Cubs versus Indians (racist), watched in Chicago. But I don't want to talk about that either. The river has shifted and moved on since then. Perhaps because I wasn't writing as it was happening? Perhaps all of the subtleties and information got lost while I was taking mental notes? Perhaps there has been just such a mass of external stimuli that I have shifted from it almost completely and am sitting now again, at another position in the river bed?

But the memory remains.

 

I am too excited/nervous to think about anything else but the prospects of seeing Resurrection Muse in a few hours. If I decide to go. I shouldn't go. I could go. I should really go. No way should I go. You should go.

 

Girls like to wear their hair down in the Autumn, on sunny, warm and windy November days. The occasional masking of silk streamed hair across a shining, beautiful face leads men into some kind of trance, a ribbonous grace. Is it mystery? Is it the element intrigue (Ig) in never being able to fully conquer, control or understand this creature who walks so freely amongst them? Is it how the wind and sun highlight their beauty, the way that supermodels, Vogue, the fashion industry and advertisements emulate (market)?

 

It smells like sour milk in here.

 

I will try my damnedest to turn off my pheromones if, in fact, I decide to go and see Resurrection Muse today.

 

Is he asleep? The Jewish fellow with the lemonade or tea.

 

Legs are so sore after intense running/stretching/walking day.

Running to see you. Running because I saw you. You highlighted the orgasm that I had that one sporadic Sunday night with my long-distance intensive running all over the place paired with Cradle of Filth moaning in seductive organs into and through my cavernous ear holes.

 

And we're back. Let us talk about the smell of it. It was like a bathroom. A bathroom that only men would use. I was sitting on a bar stool, as I constantly re-adjusted my legs to find a more comfortable position. I was sitting amidst two graphics of a man's stern face partially shrouded in vocational attire. One of the prints that was deposited against the red/yellow/green/black striped wall to my right, was of an old-fashioned masked surgeon baring only his dark, inquisitive eyes.

The other, raised up and slightly to the left was......................................................forgotten. A doctor clad in white, wearing a red cross across his forehead. The eyes of the surgeon intrigued me more, as they were paired with the element of (Fs) foreshadowing.

 

A pebble in a cage of brooding men. And wives. The wife thought that maybe, her and I could bond, watch the game together, us being some of the only females in the place, had she mistaken me for one of her kind?

 

No dice.

 

A horde of an orgy, of sorts. And I was a treat to all the husbands and lonely men who frequent this bar almost as much as I do. Men that I've watched nylon fucking and masturbation porn with, getting them all kinds of off.

They would gather by the bathroom door, in heat and unhappiness of thought. Rubbing their pants legs in the corner of my left peripheral visual field and flocking in, flocking in, thinking that I would let them in and me pretending not to notice.

 

I feel as restless as a fly trapped behind that damned window pane when it's nice and sunny out, I can feel the warmth, but am given no fresh air.

 

And I was still exhibiting all the hot and heavy bother of Resurrection Muse from the past week or so, making me want it bad, emitting penetrating waves of pheromones, which I pretended I didn't notice. Must practice turning them off.

Starting now.

​

I had practiced that in the forest, while biking the other day as the beauty of nature, weather and the early November sun had so captivated me, sending me on a surge of much needed artistry. And how men would stare, stare, stare at me and my female-bred seduction perched atop a bicycle seat. They would have no idea what to do with my perfectly sweet and succulent flower, the greatest piece of art since the dawn of the creation of time, sea and the sacred, impenetrable sunrise.

 

Now I sense a sort of National Pride here in the city ever since the World Series. Busses log slogans of hope and positivity, shit like: “Dream Big,” as was brought to us by the achievements and entertainment of the Cubs; all the money those games must have flocked into this hole.

​

​

And I contemplate the art form of this illustrious music.

 

I don't think he wanted the lemon garnished tea.

 

Now a different seed occupies the seat.

​

​

​

THE DISASTER OF NOTHING EATING YOU

​

​

Eroded,

He stood up

Amongst

The flies.

He knew

That facing

Them

Would only display

His quiet,

Empathetic

Rage.

 

 

What happens after your

Veins have

Twisted rills, elapsing envelopes from

“Of course he knows,” when

Your flesh fast-forwards

To dusty heroines…

 

 

Trace, trace

Those lines perfectly

Don’t color

Through them

For the border

 

I

s

​

a l

l

 

W e

 

H

a

v

e

 

 

 

 

I am lying perfectly still as they

Use my surface for

Shadowed

Twitching.

For ads of their repertoire and

For their furry,

Writhing masques.

I am controlling those musty strings

With dirty paintings

And flinching wrists.

He knows he is controlled,

So the light shines on

Him in collected rhombuses

(measured).

 

​

​

All it ever wanted

Was to be treated like a

New Leaf- one that could freeze

As water rushed

Past it and sunlight was injected

Into its shriveling veins, 

Introspective.

​

It gives the impression

Of being empty inside,

Of 'quietly ride,'

Nothing more than an involucre

Drenched with human vehemence.

​

It just stands there—

In the wind—

The fragrant absence,

Absorbing them and flowing

How they instruct. Sometimes they only

Whisper lies, as they know that it is

Weakened,

Apathetic,

Hive.

 

​

​

 

One night,

Two

Months

Later,

He was

Writing

On a

Yellowed

Sheet of

Stiff,

Crinkled

Paper.

He could

Smell

The

Xerox

Bitter

Addiction

Drift

And

Hang,

Suspended

On

The

Ceiling-

Or did

It sink

To the

Floor?

 

​

​

Navigating nothing

except what you want to find.

Discover the caverns of deepest

empathy and explode

all those mines,

collapsing.

 

​

Whenever

He touches your hand___.

You can hear that (squeak squeak)

Of the marker rubbing it’s ink across

Pure, unlithified white sheen.

Smoothing,

ending in “ing.”

 

 

 

 

 

Patrons waiting patiently

until their embers

have been

distinguished.

Their ashes

fly past

and get caught

in their

eyelashes.

Writing on

speckled lines-blue ink-

splattering the

ever-graying

atmosphere

with effervescence.

​

Floating to the

corner of the ceiling

where

that

Xerox

cloud

is still,

singing.

 

 

​

At five o’ clock, on a Thursday evening, that one with the dirty yellow dress climbed to the top of that tree in the neighbor’s lawn. Her orange boots trickled remembered raindrops as those muddy soles jumped and gripped. Spotting, scoping, she explodes into a puddle much deeper than expected, and that dingy, yellowed dress clung to that mangled frame.

 

 

 

 

 

When all feelings of desperation have

folded outside of

themselves. Inverted as only a can of corn would ever know.

 

His hands have become folded paper,

allowing only select pixels of light to blush at his

transparency.

 

 

 

​

 

 

 

At the Corner Booth

 

[Capillaries around the eyes can cause bleeding and self-induced fuel injections.]

 

Those car…dboard

[bite]

floorboards

just as you spot where they’re watching you

through

(coming back

d

o

w

n)

I see a sign that says, “Please do not throw wicker baskets in the garbage can.”

And wondering whether

Moses felt the same way.

-pause-

Knowing that bite* would be super spicy

Today’s word is:

“scrambled”

As long as the shifting and spasming between multiple planes stops, then whispers

“don’t try, give a car,” or was it “care”?

 

 

 

 

​

 

 

Poke.

Prod.

Dam.

Suck

Up all

Of that

Power

Lying

Under

Your

Skin.

Quick—look to your left.

There’s something over your shoulder

No wait don’t LOOK!

It’s creeping—you can glimpse a

Shadow but you can FEEL the energy.

The energy of it. Crawling- sketching-

The glint of testes cares not for feelings.

 

Trying not to step on those worms

that are already

dead.

Your pace quickens and

your feet trod

not on their

Smiling faces.

​

​

Three molecules separated from cocaine. The mathematical inequality that measures their eagerness. Surrounded now, they have formed a border of black and white linen covering stiff, upright frames around your feeble horizontal. Unknown to you, they administer twenty milligrams of fluid past those sleepy, forlorn pupils. Expanding, the darkened void bequeaths your soul and your entirety has become swallowed through the shouting mouth of humanity.

You feel the steaming shiver wake past your forearm. They step back to watch. You have become stranded under their quarantined area of high pressure. The room looks smaller, greener and humming—the walls are closing in? Or has the feeling of conceptual space shifted slightly to the left? Arms clutched at chest, you grasp your neck and see that it has turned into purple clay. The clay gathers itself and creeps, frame-by-frame, to the iron door bolted on the ceiling, had it been on the floor? No, it certainly was not the wall…

As the room proceeded in swallowing itself, you couldn’t help but think about all that dead skin laying on the floor and dripping across the walls.

Red or white sirens flash as they daze you further into hypnotica. As you have fallen into said location, you gather the purple clay in your hands and press it back, smoothing and shaping the neck just right. “It is very important to achieve a full contour as the neck is the most reputable part on a young lad’s body.” You want to run as you have spotted a massive looking-glass lying parallel to the sun. As you rise in haste, your legs collapse and your torso thuds to the ground in subsequent motions, leaving a pulsating mound of glassy fluid waiting to be picked up by someone.

A tear drops, rolling down your cheek as your muscular system had succeeded in nearly shutting down completely. You have become naught more than a jittering cake machine as you see the pride swell in your mother’s eyes.

 

And yet, the looking-glass parallel to the sun remains. As you near at last, that glossy flicker reflected in the tiled floor beckons you to feel it’s cold chill of mourning. Your cheek lays delicate, as you know you have just found heaven on earth. The right ear presses firmer as you now use more conviction. The lobes start to throb and the cilia dances around those radiant vestiges, one step (so faintly) at a time. The shine is yours as you grace it with wintry fingertips. You hear the drone and hum of those vibrations, muted in the dust they lie. This shelter is yours, this haven is mine and you thought a laugh as you remember why you had found it.

You open those eyes as you had gone to escape the hacking shards of ceiling flaking onto your shoulders. Dusty clouds absorbed your eyes as they and all the others had struggled to escape. You feel the cold, the shine. You close your eyes as the water rises past your lips.

 

 

 

 

​

 

 

Smoldering lollipops.

By means of the Fifty-first Meatpacking Passage, twenty proud sailors rejoined with their null communion. The faces of their fathers have shed not light on this forbaden communicant. Those withering trinkets held draped over widows fingers greet a welcome invitation to Dreary’s deviant door hatch.

 

The remaining 20 harvested thought-puddles integrating that lucid spray. Defious Ana-Ray Shardpaul fell backwards into the intricate fabrics of the sea. The enveloping, erasing sea. He spots the flicker of flame; those eyes again mount against that ragged fury…

​

A spontaneous shoulder-shake drifts Defious back to where he was seated, where his body was positioned in space. Surrounded he was by the sailor’s female counters, the woman fraction that was emitted from men, carrying their men back, back to what they had been and never again will be.

​

His own female counter, Analese, had grown more definite, stronger--yet somehow more feeble since he had seen her last. Defious realized that she had not needed him for her required growth, perhaps she had latched onto several other counters—either way, her rays were beaming clearer and brighter. Those clutching fingers of hers attached themselves onto his arm, leading him somewhat forcefully, back to his hember once again.

 

Wet grip (spark match). (Inhale, release) Crude floor. Tantalizing features. The door thuds monotonous through the ripping of wind and waves. Defious was there- he had seen (it). Had been to the deepest centre of Dreary’s door hatch and saw the darkness of death. Wrapped in velvet, he lay. Smoldering coals appeared and burnt beside him, lingering their foul play throughout the draftless drift. Defious listened to the sound of nothing, the pure sound of the utter absence of it. The deafening, humming, droning, nagging, throbbing, weakening, crippling, intoxicating sound of….gravity.

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​