Sid Vicious lives on in oceans of punk rock daydreams in our heads. Bass guitars blaring rudely through distorted sound effects, melodramatic posturing and aggressive movement dawns on stages whose floorboards creak at every stomp of sneaker. Sweat beads like a broken necklace whose string cannot find its clasp on the other end. A string of pearls hit the ground like rain. Beer become warm from the stage lights and sold out crowd. A scream heard from off-mic. I want to hear the guitars in my ears again, reverberations. The buzz coming up from the floor and spreading throughout us all. Harmonic togetherness in concert wholeness, oneness. Buddha with the brickface. What I wouldn’t do for an overpriced beer and a night out, a reminder that I too am alive and in this moment. Am feeling these emotions, or have felt them, have claimed and laid ownership to them. This world is traumatic and cruel. I do not want to live as a skeleton when I have not yet decomposed. Compass points North inside; one true thing. Light bulbs flicker on and cascade, like carnival, Jersey Shore boardwalk.
Wherever I aimless roam – Marvelous beaches, sparkling sand, glittering water. I taste salty dewdrops of the morning. They take residence on my tongue, reminders that all is flowing omnipresent; Should be marveled in a state of wonder. Yet, I remain constantly nonplussed. Take all things as given. Strangers’ bed comatose remains; Icicles that do not melt come summer. In the Mars Rover, Dune Buggy, over hills and down valleys as the motor sputters and gives out, I hear it call my name. The appeal of the emptiness and the glorious moments of what it must be like to be alone. I have forgotten the silence like I have forgotten what my bed feels like when I’m away from home for far too long. The shirts are all neatly folded in the drawer. The dust cascades in mists. Traveler, creature, wanderlust, dictionary cheat. Looking through binoculars, attempting to focus. Lookout watchtower from the pirate ship. No dramamine trades for an eye patch. Marvelously stupid idea. Playground rulebook. Methodology denied. Cannot argue someone else’s point of view.
Old magnetic tape recorder hissing in silence, rolls of tape spindle onwards catching every sign and dewdrop tear. Into protective box case it goes after the last chord rings out. We all know the wave gets smaller and smaller. Cuts and splices on the mix. I do not know the first thing about self-preservation or mind-numbing tendencies. Shaking like a leaf in an earthquake one fall morning. Brisk winds blow, weeping at my feet. I feel the thunderous boom and crack of the Earth splitting up, divorcing itself, swallowing me whole, as I listen to the one true thing that understands my emotional duress. Playpen war where the borders of countries are made with Fischer Price baby-proof materials. There is a gate where we bang our hands and cry out because we cannot get through. Writers block. It’s not going anywhere. There is the resounding pitch of air horns, warning in case of air strike. Must be triggering up to a certain age. I want to see bakeries open before the sun, and smell the streets before they are polluted by cars. In the future that I cannot imagine, I will probably surprise even myself. But for now, it is just humdrum, not enoughs and living in yesterdays and checking my phone for literally any differentiation or change, however minimal, even if it’s just the time.
Unwrapping foil paper to partake in a delectable chocolate treat. It tastes like no rules, summer time, no school, getting away with sneaking out the evidence. I want Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup frozen, to melt in my mouth where the chocolate and peanut butter just meld into one. Halloween treats and desires. It’s all kind of insane; The mass amounts of sugar and sweetened syrups we consumed as children. “Did you know my sweet, that I once took the liberty of watching you in your sleep?” To let guards down and remove armor on Rutgers dorm room beds and lay awake in silence ’til first light. An awkward life. Rabid chomping at the bit. We are horses breaking to get out the gate. Bobby Flay and his mint juleps two minutes to countdown. This is a culture I did not grow up with or understand. What happens to all the women in the dark when they can’t see their own hand in front of their face? I want oxygen all around me, high up on an elevated mountain peaks glancing down a bottomless Earth. Caught in the stratosphere. Red Bull daredevil. Space heart attack. Palms sweating already. Clutching and bunching up the fabric of my elastic waistband pants. Do I miss her? Or am I just telling myself that I do in attempts to feel less lonely? Same circumstance, different day. Jotting down the elements, elegance. Stamping our feet to rhythms of time. They are like erratic heartbeats.
See-through billowing clouds, ground level between your feet and heart, exhaled out through nostrils not wasting the taste, but savoring it; So that every Sunday evening will remind you of sweet tobacco. It clouds your third eye. The TV blares white and blue light from the living room. Entrenched in darkness as the sun goes down, making your pupils wide; Certain as the day becomes night. A painting obscured by a sheet; We don't look that way anymore. The smoke marries itself to the furniture and carpet, so that even when he is long gone he is actually still here. There is a DNA fabric pattern that has mutated and becomes its own self in relation to this man, who will now always been present, smoking, silent. Cross-legged, perfect posture, dress pulled over the knees. Secure and barefoot behind the coffee table. In 18 years time the air replicates itself to a downtown club with blue floodlights and jazz tunes and cigarettes weeping idly by, wishing the buzzed, nauseating Gravitron ride will all be over soon. Fake pearls around her neck, plastic rubies on her wrist.