Float Drills

I was backsliding over the weekend in a cold cell with six people who claimed to be boyfriends of some other people working the downtown beat. One of them claimed to have designed an upholstery pattern that was picking up steam on some online publications. One is a cousin of one direction. One has never eaten a big mac. One has never been handed a business card. One doesn't wear shoes with laces. Okay...

I am not even angry about the other lies I heard. I am not permitted that particular freight. I think that's fair!

Slackened Remnants

Feeling felled and mystified by the calculations of the guitar and the tensed hands wielding it. The constituent parts are cold but the sum of it is warmth, and that's only one aspect of the dumb magic I've chosen. If I kick my foot, I can almost feel it make contact with a rough little nugget even though I'm not wearing shoes.

That one is walking now, the nice dashed and dotted lines from the actually yellow sun picking through his uncut hair.

Father watches with dulled curiosity. They smoke now, again. I'm surprised. The pendulum swung back to smoking fathers.

Skin with Atmospheric Marks

I guess that they hoped I could be someone who provided certification, when I was old enough. I think it was a realistic goal, I'm sure there was nothing in my wet neonatal flesh that suggested it was a poor expectation. But something changed and it became less and less probable.

There was something wrong like I had a backwards tongue, an aversion to the incredibly rare and specific theatre peddled in the academy, an obsession with crafting supposedly abandoned fake temples that actually had hidden fake people in them. Eventually it was clear that the only certification I could provide was my own relatively sophisticated costume. Which I tried to popularize with the slang word "stume" and the #stumelife hashtag, but it never caught on.

Abalone

Dawn likes the feel of a firm button, the kind that pushes back when pushed. Response, not resistance. Four buttons on the new remote have this quality. They control the input.

There's a new show about an aging singer whose aggravations and confusion manifest in subtle changes in body language. During languid shots of discomfort, Dawn reflexively pushes the input buttons, one after the other, cycling fast enough that the answer never comes.

Harmony Alloys in the Swell

There's a prayer circle in the weed lot, seven people in different tee shirts, a few with colorful water bottles, and one Cambodian expat standing above them looking pretty bored. He's hoping one of them gets bit or stung on the thigh by a bug that's had its foraging thwarted, but that's probably just a figment of an atheist's sad brain. More likely he's a nice guy whose watching these young folks in their fragile privacy and wondering how long til the last one folds.

Scribbled Eyes

It's looking for me and the background is sliding away. It happens for 5-10 seconds, I reckon. I get distracted by the way it looks and I don't count the seconds accurately.

It sort of reminds me of the art in the house I knew my grandparents in. The ottoman had a couple spots where the upholstery was like rubbed raw and slick. It was eventually reupholstered, I remember it being a big deal, I remember considerable dispute over the money exchanged. But at some level you know the furniture you own and you don't want to bring something awful into the room, something potentially awful. So you choose a similar fabric and pay the man and move on.

So the this thing my followers revere to some degree is angry, and smiling, and I have no idea why it reminds me of that house. Earlier I said "it's looking for me" but I meant "it's looking at me." But I'm leaving that uncorrected.

The Lingering Allure of Demonstration

The singers stick a palpable teenage byproduct into their everyday life, groaning, sacrificing the late-night partying of scissoring miscreants.

Doubling down on their disgruntled boys’ club and blowing up the reinvigorated programming of American vitriol, inner city rebels and b-boys draw on the sophistication of passersby looking to adopt strict rules and pass for fearsome, psychedelia-loving vehicles for eternal self-flagellation.

For generations of rhyming rivals, the loudspeakers shiver with an impressionistic savagery so dark that sociologists resonate emotionally with a cheap guy fearing what he doesn’t understand, which is basically everything.