Time In Paris

Time was something else then. In a city. Far away from here. Far away from distant country railways leading into more country and the blood rivers of the south; its veins. I am from a land of cotton and speech that sounds like nails against a black board.

It bothers me none. As I wander streets now in a shade of winter; New York in spring, perhaps Paris in summer. Paris. I am here and you are there. Oh how far away we are.

It bothers me none. The jazz in the summer time on a hot sidewalk. A sidewalk you can stick to with your sweat. And every so often a breeze ruffles your hair; that is Paris. Wine following good natured hearts over somewhere picturesque. I often picked a walk in the graveyard. How sweet it was. That was time in Paris.

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I feel like Capote standing up here

Under blood red curtain.

Reading a peice of soul.

To the mist of southern town

As he did once.

As I am supposed to do now for twenty percent of a grade. more or less

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Here he is.

This is Iggy

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To Iggy

That was it. Done. Over with. Bam. I became fascinated by this creature. He's like some being on another planet. He's like... wow. My heart was beating faster than I thought my body would allow. And then my mind gave way to the teenage hype hysteria over something. No. He isn't new. He's been around a long while... before my time. Iggy...

I never expect my mother to understand. "Are you working?" she asked, casting a glance at my computer screen. "Yes..." I say, voice slight higher pitched and less raspy as I quickly click out of a Google image search of Iggy Pop. I was desperate. Over and over again "Tonight" played. It almost rattled the house. "What's so good about that song?! It's just about some punk who died." Like I said, never expect a mother to understand.

I looked off glassy eyed, lips slightly parted in teenage fascination. He's raw. He's real. He's alive! I get him! I do! I do! My heart sang out praises though my lips never moved. They wonder whats wrong with me. I can only mumble some generic answer as I fall into the old pattern of arms wrapped around legs, twitching in an awkward poise to The Idiot. Over and over and over. Like a dog to its owner, drug addict to his drugs; THIS is my fix, god damn it! This is the thing I've been searching for. He is the thing that cuts right down to the core of my soul and shines a light on it. He's the one I wake up with in the morning then he is the one to sing me to sleep.

I know you'll never read this. I love you Iggy Pop.

Does anything matter?

A friend I haven't seen in a very long time came over today. She's a dancer and my mother being a former costumer needed help with a badly made tutu. Yes, I can tell the difference between a good one and a bad one by now. Thanks sister! It was odd to see someone I haven't seen in a long time. She certainly did not have the dancers body I remembered her having. Or that spark in her eyes. Where did that go?

I realize that people change as does pretty much everything. Lines are crossed and I wounded if its all worth it. Living I mean. We're all going to die. Sorry kiddies if I scare you but its the truth. I'm not even old but I feel like so much has happened. There's lines on my face, and scars everywhere. It makes me wonder if people are misguided and they just wander until something makes sense and they go into this dull life or do they just keep wandering forever until they can wander no more? And just die? That's it? Done? Fin?

Have you ever thought about how much of our life we waste sleeping? Waiting when we could be doing something? Students stuck in a class room cramming knowledge into them when I woke up today and realized that it doesn't matter where I go in the end because I'll just end up like everything else in the world; dead. On the surface it might be morbid, and sure its cynical but its true. I mean think of some grate influence to your country or something like that. They're dead. Yeah. And yes they left impact and yes that's important but honestly we all end up the same.

Thats why I don't get why we have to fight about stuff. Religion, sexuality, whatever. It dosn't matter. So I wonder if anything matters if we all end up the same.

A Play Named Trash

Scene: Ms. Rachel throws trash bag out for fourth story window into dumpster. Mr. Smith walks causally threw the door.

S: What are you doing Ms. Rachel?
R: Takin’ out the trash, Mr. Smith.
S: Did the coons get in the cans again?
R: -sigh- As always.
S: Did they flip the lid?
R: Don’t they all?
S: Did the bastards put up a fight?
R: Don’t they all? (irritated)
Pause
R: Your friend John Q. Law stopped by today, Mr. Smith.
S: What did he want?
R: Wanted to know where the garbage man was at, of course.
S: Did you tell him about the dump?
R: All the raccoons want to get in the dump, get in our trash, those J.Qs are all the same. Dirty dirty coons every last one of them.
S: Yes, but did you tell him about the dump? (irritated, annoyed.)
R: Ha! Why the hell would I tell HIM, a nobody, a chump, where the garbage man was at?
S: Well… you know words get around…. And if he finds out we’re trash.
Pause
S: So… when’s the garbage man going to pick it up?
R: Same time as usual. No later or earlier.
S: Why then? Why not now?
R: You know he makes his rounds, Mr. Smith.
S: What did you do with-
R: Oh! That. Ha-ha… I.. I took care of that.
S: -sigh- You know,, one day some fucker is going to go through your trash and then one day you won’t be so lucky. (scolding, angry)
R: Ha! I’m the fox, remember? I always get away. Always. (shaky confidence)
Pause: both glance down out at the dumpster
S: Why’d you do it?
R: No one likes raccoons in their trash, Mr. Smith.
S: Well, wash up Rachel. Takin’ out the trash can get pretty damn dirty.

Crash.

Sorrow is the rock tied to my feet.

It drags me down so dark and so deep.

Sinking slower to the bottom I try and claw for air.

A breath of hope that simply isn't there.

These waves of doubt and tears seem to rise and fall each year.

Thunder boomed. Lighting flashed.

Waves roared and then I crashed.

I crashed into more.

And threw it all I'm never alone.

Because sorrow is always there.

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