HOMESTEAD PARK

by Jake David

Adults keep themselves young; standing on guard-rails outside the local school, waves of rubber motors cough up & down the corridor-sidewalks, looking for places to stall & catch a number well-spent, toasted at the tips with hints of pasts on-groveling prison’s ghosts dancing. Hunched-over children ache from their backpack, & dear-old Mothers with sore spines weep, as the spoken sunset drives over Nevada’s deserts to say goodbye, I’ll hang my head low–because I’m weaker than the sea creatures taking their last breath in a pool of oil.

 

Caught by the facades of fingertips, I’ll live only as remains alive–a realist, and I’m Reality. As a Realist that unrealistically waits for chance, watching clocks heading towards something. Towards what? All the lands have been discovered. Highways seal over cemeteries. Interstates overlaying dried-up rivers. What sort of driven psychotic monster would return to this place day-in and day out?

 

United Clocks of INCerica, an infirmary of a nation to get away from, in the throes of a stolen mind. Guess that’s why I decided to moley on down the river-pier docks shortly before the sunset caught its price for the time being.. Rightful kinda life daybyday. Each day’s same far’s I’s concerned. and each day-through-night-to-another-day that comes by my window’s eyes becomes reminder why being in love w/ being unsocially-accepted mad reminds me how insane it is pretending to be sane. Two thin-clad vixens I saw across the fields looked my way, caught my eye. Sunset travelers? Maybe sisters. Trinity, somewhere, back home.

 

Why bullshit around the pussy bush on an ego-trip to convince others you aren’t interested? Suck an ego to orgasm, smiling. Laughing. ’till they at-last reached where I sat and stood there. Greetings. One of them–the youngest that caught me with a leer in her eyes–with her eyes like smoke, a Mercury child with auburnt-silky hair falling between every moment in her life that came; silky-flowy milk’d skin vibrant underneath the parting sun’s graces of an acoustic candle flame’s jewel-hum–sat down next to me, curiously, as if on a dare by her friend who ‘conveniently’ said she had something to do, bye. Seeya.

 

 The friend that stayed turned t’ me, opening bright the type kind of right conversation:

 

 ”Where you headed?” I asked, offering a light. She took it. Inhaled twice. Ah, that kinda dame.

 

Smoke curling wisp from her thick-soft peached lips, she coy’d: “I wouldn’t say I’m headed the wrong way, since I’m not learning from any mistakes.”

 

Saw in her eyes she pissed in the wind many more times than she has gallons for sinking each night, one them nights again? I gathered it something with being a young maid too daft for romanticized yearnings, and short-handed stockings over the sins of her own equation, merit, definition, allhowever means to her as it shouldn’t have been by the time we crossed paths.

 

Flick. Drag. Cigarette. Delicious. Empty silence with question/observation. “You said you aren’t learning from any mistakes, which assumes the wrong way isn’t the way that needs people to go to it. What are you learning from something that isn’t something?”

 

Bukowski said “If you’re writing because you want women in your bed, don’t do it.” The miserable sod underestimated how much I needed to lose my virginity. Feigning concern always works in the cheap tricks about somebody else’s lives. Hell, s’how makes some get by.

 

She looked me up and down, aware of it, like the slimy snake she ketchup’d being: “They’re productive as long as you don’t try turning an eternity into infinite and a wrong idea into a wrong ideal.” She took a drag from her cigarette, wary of probably frightening me with her coated, adding: “Was that a good answer? If I even got it properly.”

 

“Would it be wrong if you got it improperly?”

 

Hah: “Probably not, but we live in a culture that says it does. So I have to assume that influences my perspective.”

 

“Culture’s a sham,” I said. “We’re getting too damn close to becoming coffeehouse faux-philosophical hargafloogyjarggarubbuflr.”

 

She didn’t mind: “I’ve realized that defining anything can degrading it. Like any preconceived notions of life, living, or any system imaginable.” Or unimaginable, as is the century-young trend with culture. Amusing, really. A musing, maybe. But not amusing. Amused herself, she did. Stood up, thanked me for the cigarette; usual social etiquette of meeting anybody new and feigning interest for the sake their ego at having been a nice person met. Up and out. From my life, watching go.

 

Bah. Suffering’s for peasants. The gulls. Did that rat-bastard of a girl understand what I meant by thinking about Bukowski’s sermon? Residing withinside her spine the spine that doesn’t mind later-on sordid affairs, the night warm. Reasons around a fingertip. The fiend. Things that used to mean something that existed for the primal moment her and I caught each other’s nerve-wracking glance. Patronizing our own histories for the sense of being on the road to somewhere else, somewhere new; a new land that’s name doesn’t begin with the letters Uni, Can, Mex, Aus, or NorKor.

 

Figure me influence of their treacherous tricks on me! Where’d they go? Anywhere in the new night’s mournful morning, under a sea of galaxies? To assassinate the President? Maybe. Vanguard Avant domination, heading towards. She was told. Game. Sham. Everyone tries playing everyone. Play into the laps of bitten lips and sweet soft sighs. Moans the night, acheful lust. Maybe I assumed the role to impress; literature prostitutes aim to please all. Please please Plea, oh yeah, like she pleases Mankind’s influence on a social artist’s night, how many hours fluence the night?

 

 I stared up straight through the moon’s bosom, rang the curt-tail curt frankness of impending gloom coming from her departure. Why here. The asylum? Every mind met is an asylum unst itself. Forgive me Father, for I have lived through her eyes. Sue me. What? I’d forgotten, and if things go the way they would, it wouldn’t matter by the time pants come off, and we’d slip into a cathedral for a night prayer. God woulda been annoyed as all Hell being called-upon for so long. Lotsa friends He has, I imagine.

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~ This piece was posted on Wednesday, May 12th, 2010 and was filed under Short Story, Writing. You can make comments on it below. ~