Just keep walking in those way too high heels hoping someone,anyone, will notice and admire and desire the fruit of your labours the juice of your squeeze the untapped potential of a volcano ready to implode.
My only way to get out of this is to write my way out. I have to write something these bastards will appreciate enough to finally recognize my true worth.
Young people and retired people must share a lot of the same feelings of ennui. Standing about with no place to go, trying to make themselves useful but only really getting in everybody’s way.
Two girls wearing fedoras and high waisted shorts with flowery blouses sit al fresco on las Vegas boulevard breathing in the smog and second hand smoke as they eat ridiculously over priced food and discuss the weather. Its sunny outside
Its funny how a woman just enters your life, seemingly out of nowhere, and she makes this tremendous impression on your outlook on life and then she leaves and you begin to wonder if all those things you learned about yourself are even true and it damages you to the core of your being and just as you’re about to breathe your last breath and sink to the bottom of the ocean and die, another woman appears, seemingly out of nowhere, and she makes you feel like as if there were no other lovers but her, but your mind still wonders, what if? What if this all just another ride? But you risk it anyway, risk getting hurt or destroyed, because the thrill of love is too strong to resist, because the high is more powerful than the comedown is devestating. I’m addicted.
Everything these days is pictures. Pictures and a lot of noise. Nobody even knows how to talk. Just grunt at each other.
They come here like hordes.
Mad in the street
Drunk in the day
Gawking at everyone
Yelling and glances that say hello and goodbye. An endless search .
the hordes of the earth
I don’t want your thank yous or your condolences.
I want a respite from death.
I want your lips, that curl, curve, breath to swoon and beckon my name is the dreary morning.
She is the burden of truth
resting on a heavy soul
Whimpering not to be left alone.
Chipotle Chicken Tinga & Jalopeño Müenster Quesadilla
I am the bastard son of an alcoholic illegal immigrant and a woman more powerful and endearing than any I’d ever seen. I am a self-acclaimed connoisseur of spirits, indicas, and women. I am a felon and a fornicator; existential punk incognito. I am a defacer of public and private property. I am thief and a liar with a bad conscience and many regrets that I’ve turned into beneficial expierence. I am a gambler but I don’t have a problem. I am a amateur psychologist and a consigliere to my friends. I am a pharmaceutical scientest who tests his expierments hap-hazardly on himself. I am a college dropout and a film student at heart. I am a silent sufferer quietly weeping alone in the dark crying to no one but myself and God. I am a traveler and I’ve meet many people from around the world. I’ve seen the warnings and glories of God’s wrath and Paradise. I’ve seen the beaches of Puerto Escondido and I’ve ecounterd angels that walk on land. I’ve eaten, with the beggars and the drunks, in the churches of rural Mexico, the same Caldo de Pollo and bread that they serve in resturaunts with a butler for every table. As a boy, in California, I was sucked by the undertow into the open ocean with no help around and when I could swim no further I gave up hope when suddenly, as if by the same mysterious force that tugged me in, it spit me out.