Realities of death
Realities of death
scantily clad models on the splash page of the internet service. bubonic plague in krygystan. wagner is in afghanistan now, married, shirley q is pregnant, very close to unmarriage. shelton’s boots are lying on the floor in still life: nike tan desert shoes, done in symmetrical flourescence. An old as hell bulldog motif is scribbled in sharpie on a pillar, on the shadowed face closest to me, the other plane adorned simply with a two-socket at gnome height. The light from outside is blue and the light in here is the off-white of my guitar at home with the same yellow binding fading in from the edges. the guitar that’s here was owned by a dirty fat mexican, one of my best friends, languishing/lying in a state of disrepair that makes me sad. I think of all the people who mistreat guitars in my life and consider the old adage: those who are not nice to the waiter are not nice people. except most waiters are actors, especially in new york, so maybe they just have unresolved tension with a decidedly thespian tone. A synth piano plays softly to my left in time with the sound of random digging. Two months ago there was a soldier with a saxophone who was proficient in jazz, and he’d sit there out next to the street, belting out incantations and runnning through licks several times, each with the same impetus, indistinguishable until the last runthrough and that soothing ahhhh of musical completion, unmistakable effigy. I walked home by myself and the sun ran down on me in the checkered shorts I wore in Hayden’s basement on my birthday the day we got kicked out and had to survive the hundred degree day, which was a massacre back in Virginia but would be passed over by the standard issue Texan any day of the week. Which, come to think of it, sounds largely day by day more and more like me. I walked through the thick milky sunset that rolled down the hill, deposited itself on the valley below, and it was cowboy bebop, it was me wondering why they never built tall buildings in the plains, the scorched flatland that Texas will always be, wondering why there wasn’t some tower that could conquer the city, the county, the state with just a simple telescope lens. One where you’d pull a panoramic picture out of your hair, short as it may be now, almost, but not yet short as mine.
black on black on black is the only way to live
Sarah selfies are best selfies
Listen/purchase: Wicker bones by Ava Marie
Self-Confidence Forecast, 2014
iPhone App Screengrab