candycox

of beatnik tongues, twilight scents, and autumn

i'm sitting here alone at a downtown hotel,
counting the green waves undulating in the carpet.
i refrain from smoking a cigarette,
but i can't stop playing with the lighter.
the walls pulse and heave, inhale and breathe,
like a gasping lung.
i pull out my journal and start writing,
my mind quaking
beyond seismic proportions.

a coup d'etats of sanity
if you will.

i pause,
lost in green and sick delusions.
i reverberate through the walls like glistening silver,
a cold chill, a slap
across the face.
i think about myself and about my life.

am i really happy, or just pretending that i am?
am i evolving? discovering? questioning?
struggling for more?

i want to be consumed by green -
a new dimension decorated in Dali clocks
and bawdy Beatnik tongues.
instead i drown like a sea nymph
beneath the symphonic blinks
and beeps of elevators.

i dissolve into the floor.
im way too high.

i finally drag myself outside to the waking world.
i check my watch: its 5:30 pm.
skyscrapers block out what's left of the sun;
i try not to panic for air.
the twilight smells of neuroses and wet matches,
smeared make-up and wilted flowers.
a palpable melancholy. a true burroughs moment.
i cross the streets against the lights,
concocting stories about the people i pass:
that blue-hawked goth guy probably hates kids and the president,
that rich CEO probably cheats on his wife,
those sourpuss girls probably killed their babysitter
while she was sleeping.

i count the number of dirty sneakers
strewn across telephone wires,
and the trolleys that hum and whistle like electric caterpillars.
i make a point of remembering the details.
more walls of graffiti. more rusted lives
like wasted food in the dumpster.
more homeless men crumpled
in forgotten heaps
around the corner, stinking
of stigmas and stereotypes.
more starched suits pretending not to see them.

up and down, in and out, forward and backwards.
the circadian rhythms of a pulsing city,
glittering like a computer chip in the bowels
of the impending night.
the chill in the air is almost tangible;
it's hard not to notice the changing innuendos
of autumn.

i look up as the sky shudders
in shocks of white. lightning slaying its prey.
dissolution. disruption.
retribution for the damned.
the clouds grumble nearby, thundering across
the darkness like the psychotic rants
of a madman.
migrating slowly and surely
to an inevitable demise.
the sky broods with a tinge
of chaos in the air. the stench of loneliness.
the simmering of subversion.

for a moment -
i taste the metallic
destruction upon my tongue -
and all i do is smile.