The grass is wet and black. This much I know. To be fact. The love is extra. And always will be. Breath against the back of my ear where it smells funny. If I lick the tip of my finger and rub. Until it comes away dark. The same way my fingers get. Pinched roaches. Burned. Tooth scrubbed. Washed and wet again against the bushes of that bitch's house. Who never waves hello. Assuming you're up to no good. Again. I want to take her out. To Wyvern's and buy her some shots. I promised myself I would stop fucking. I promised everyone else I would stop fucking. Old people.
So I rub my fingers until the burned skin comes off. And try to ignore it. The soaking. Cutting across lawns. The grass is wet and black. Without the sun in my mouth. Someone was telling me. With a name like Geritnaquess you better be really good at dealing. Or sports. I used to parse laughter. And cheap laughter. Before I learned they work the same magic. On my nerves. Everything feels different when it rains. Not hard enough to make me wear sunglasses at night. Takes a lot. Everyone feels a little bit of celebrity. When there is occlusion. I am no different.
Before I will shake your hand. Out of courtesy. We all turn to our own. Devices making distance a little less than what it otherwise loves to be. Hell informants and the devils. And their guns. The living go reckless through my head. Like it's Easter all over again and eggs are made of plastic. With little candies inside every day. I am surprised we haven't been down before. This road. Reminds me a lot of the time I spent in Austin. Fit in at your own peril. At your convenience. Four dollars and a favor at a time. Trying not to burn. Go gray on me. Eyes fix.
And I will slit your wrists in your sleep. Is what I tell myself. To tell the stars. Pull the chord. Freefall is a perfect state. When the pressure is right. A man could stand up on air like that. How boyish can you be? Curb rise has no glamour. The moon is a diva. Tie your shoes. If you are going to walk. With me. I am more complete than I am. With you. I never know. With certainty. I was supposed to meet up with L. K. but I am. Between buildings instead and sucking. Rainwater into the seat of my jeans. Fingers playing. Instrument and mental in the concrete creases.
Wet and black and in every blade a little ball of sun. I've slept again. Outside. I've missed again. Remember the phone call? The arrangement? She waited engine running and you. Are half dressed. Wonder why she didn't come looking. For you it means less. Than it should be a wake up call. To what? Breathing in. The air feels like my hand is cranking an oar through. Slush is coming too soon for the weather. Yesterday I sat out here with a cup in a cozy. What I did before then. I do not know or. Compartmentalization is getting. To me it is.
As meaningful as saying "hug it out". To bodies so celestial I could never hope to make. Contact your supplier. Or don't. Live in a fish bowl if your memory will never be short enough to forget the castle. Is the same castle you slept in and you want something to break. Yesterday the sun came up and the sun went down. Your molecules the same. Though the dance music has not been. All that danceable. The grass is wet. The grass is black. I keep blinking and tearing up for something starlight. All I get. Contrails lit up in headlights. Mounted on the nose of another airplane going. To where I'm not.
The terror is bending in. To my insides I hum little love songs. A few minutes at a time. A night can pass. Swallowed. But not before the money hits the table. Next to the pillows. Where drool pools unchecked. You can wake up again. Into another dream. Where steam punk reigns and swords are concealed. Weapons of mass destruction lie in every field of flowers and conspiracy flies. Like diamonds from dead hands. Wires mass and convulse and take on life. Like you've never known it. She'll call tomorrow. The table will wait. Tonight we dream in science and high adventure.
