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.

The Aching of the Fashion Man

Gino is the destroyer of inaccurate, nondescript, and confusing cities. Kyle is a senior UX designer who loves to spend time with deniers paid by the fossil fuel industry to make all those creatures that go bump in the night afraid.

What kind of men are they? They are not the incarnation of what I imagine my greatest hater would despise most.

I'm not mad about this, but I am a monster who love cannot fix. I’m in a mood today, and I DON’T CARE.

Hair Arcade

The enslaved grandparents are servants to streaming comedies. They command our attention as they snack on wet granola, and their imaginary hunger fills us. We've found ourselves comatose in public before, palpable. But this new sensation, amid the leers of uniformed attendants, feels especially deserved.

The windows of this early '50s ranch are weather-sealed, soundproofed, adorned with decals to warn away careless birds. The various colors of our slacks are inspired by forgotten colonial exploits, inviting catcalls. Dark vanity draws the blood from our legs, fractures our educated chivalry. There really aren't many athletes here. There aren't many style icons to guide us. Most men fail to achieve an optimum work-life balance.

Hard, Hard and Polished

G is sitting at a simple patio table reading a little book, upon the table sits a plate with some crumbs on it

There is only one chair and it is the one G sits upon

K enters

K: I have a qu-

G: Don't talk

K: Bu-

G: Please

K: ...

G: ...

K: Igottago-

G: Please

K sits down, eyes flared, nervous movements in their appendages

K stands swatting at their bottom and looking down at the ground in surprise

K: These ants-

G: SSSSHHHHH

K looks at G, a sense of growing anger in K's body

G: You didn't read the pamphlets?

G holds their finger to their lips

K shrugs, body expressing confusion and confirmation that the pamphlets were no read

G: There are ants ... If you'd read the pamphlet you'd know it ...

K slaps at their thigh, sharply

G: That's your fault

K exits and G goes back to reading the little book

Soon an ugly dragging abrasive sound is known and K re-enters, with a heavy chair

K sits on the chair and looks down suspiciously at the ground

K rubs their eyes and expresses exhaustion, bodily

G reacts with humor at the little book they are reading

K settles into the chair, staring at G for a while as G engages with their book

TBC

Upside Down in the Guy's Warehouse

I resemble Steven Tyler, Bostonian rock and roll star. He, like me, is native New Yorker. I've got that great accent you've heard in the programs or at the cinema. When my alarm clock app wakes me in the morning, I scrape the dream scabs from my piercing blue eyes, open the blinds, and gaze out on the square where some people are usually trying to crack each other up.

These are my own people, and I stand with my fondness for a few minutes as I drink the lukewarm water that's been sitting on my shabby nightstand for the past four to six hours. Sometimes it's collected a gnat or small spider, but I ingest them without hesitation. They are part of a beautiful life, too.

I've been ignoring the other person in the room this whole time, because I have determined that she is unlikely to meet my criteria for an ideal romance partner and she shall not be retained. Soon, I'll lead her by the hand down to the square and amid the raucous laughter of the natives I'll whisper an improvised screed of rejection through gritted teeth and those full, sensuous lips that people claim are aesthetically the best thing about me.

Then I'll board a subway car and try to meet another one in another square.