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I tried to figure out
What’s wrong in my head
Woke up one morning
And thought I was dead
I called you on the phone
So you could deny it
But when you told me I
Still didn’t buy it
Then you got mad
And called me crazy
I’d argue the point
If I wasn’t so lazy
I thought I was dead But, it was all in my head
Maybe I’ll find What’s wrong in my mind
Maybe I’m scared I might be right
But, baby, right now I just wanna fight
Cause you if I were dead, you’d be crying
Unless I am and you’re just denying
Stepped outside
To feel the cold
Might have went naked
But I’m not that bold
Just want to feel
Anything will do
Since there’s no more
Feeling on you
If I have a soul
It has to be tainted
You didn’t pick up when I called
So again I waited
Sitting in the bar, beer in hand, I sipped and watched as she walked in. I knew her, though I couldn’t place it at the moment, black hair and somehwat rigid nose. The eyes, too. But from where?
I watched her sit at the bar, sipping cold Bud Light from the brown, sweaty bottle. I heard open mic night was tonight, so I stopped by to check things out. I didn’t expect to see her there, not that I could place her and her black glasses. Then it hit my brain with the force of an A Bomb. ‘Holy shit’ I whispered to the whirring fan overhead. ‘That’s Jolie!’
I wondered what to do now, though. This woman I know only from a blog and Myspace, and she the same. Her writing was an inspiration, making me jealous with the way she wielded her wit and ability to pull me in. I loved this woman for her expertise. Do I tell her? No. She would surely have me tossed out. Or would she? Maybe she’d be flattered. Maybe she would be as excited to see me, as we fandom for each other to a degree. Then again, she might not recognize me, just as I didn’t recognize her at first.
I gulped down the last few ounces in the bottle and nearly slammed it on the table, my mind made up. I stood and walked over to the bar where she sat, drink in hand.
‘Excuse me, you’re Jolie Porter, right? Then again, mayhap that’s not your real name, but it’s how I know you. I’m Wailin, and I love you for your mind.’
The museum was far from crowded, hushed talking echoing along the marble, footsteps resounding as thunder from the steps, and lights highlighting the artwork on the walls. She was smiling slightly, eyes beaming with glee that we had come here. She was an art lover without experience, Christy. Much like myself, her idea of fine art fell into two categories: what she would hang on her wall at home and what she would not.
That’s one of the things I like about her. She is not pretentious at all. She’s simple and sweet, though it does make me carry a lot of conversations. I hooked my arm around hers, my black sleeve harsh against her green. She looked up at me and smiled, her eyes beaming. I can’t describe those eyes well. Perhaps they are hazel, or maybe green, or even both. All I know is they are beautiful when framed by her tight curled black hair.
‘I really like this one. I don’t know why, though. It just makes me feel… something.’
‘Well, as long as it does that, then it’s doing it’s job’ gazing at the sad woman in the painting. She looked sad to me, anyways. Maybe she was just bored. Her eyes followed me around the room, at any rate. We ambled along hand in hand or arm in arm, passing more paintings, statues, and digital experiences.
‘I wish I could paint. It looks so fun.’
‘Well, I can’t paint at all. I once bought a canvas, brushes, and some oils. Then I learned I suck at it, but it was fun. You should give it a go. Need a hobby anyways, right?’
‘I can’t do that like you can.’
‘Why not? Just get up and try. Thanks to that I can ballroom dance, play guitar, and bake my own bread. Only thing stopping you is you, Christy.’ while standing before a portrait of Abraham Lincoln. He was one ugly dude, I decided. I found it interesting how different people look now. It hardly seems we’re of the same species at times.
‘I tried to learn guitar once, but I was bad at it. I eventually gave up. It’s my fingers, really. They’re short!’
‘Well, you can buy one with a thinner neck if you want to. They make guitars specially for women now. They’re smaller and lighter. Cost a bunch, though.’
‘I might do that’ she told a depiction of the crucifixion. People milled about, mostly students on a field trip, hardly paying attention to the art. I wrapped my arms around her then, just below her breasts, and kissed her on the cheek with my chin resting on her shoulder. She leaned her head into mine, a hug as best she could manage from this vantage point.
Somehow I knew things would not last.
Riding hard, we kicked up a storm of dust. Hooves hit the ground like Thor’s hammer. We four were the thunder, rolling across the deadlands. You could hear for miles, if the wind was right. Apparently, it was that day because the bandits were waiting.
Paco’s rifle let loose, sending a man to the ground with only half a head. They fired back but at this distance a revolver couldn’t hit much. I met a man’s eyes, terror filled and stung by sweat, before we loosed the lightning on our hips. Gunpowder filled my nose when two shots were loosed into the man’s gut and neck.
Smoke cleared and we were all that was left alive. Their Apocalypse had come. We were the horsemen. Justice smiled. We are the posse.
Even on your back in the gutter, you can still see stars.
The brakes clamped hard, pedal to the metal, but the car did not stop. It skidded, slid, skated along the road and a centimeter of ice. The back became the front, front the back, back the front, spinning, spinning, spinning. The edge neared, small white wall looming more than I thought a small white wall could. Seatbelt tight against chest I exhaled. My ribs hurt with the effort. Metal met stone and pushed through to air. My stomach sank and rose to my throat, bringing vomit and terror. I watched a penny fly, riding the ceiling, paper cups and plastic bottles dancing in the atmosphere.
Splash.
It’s easy to forget how your lips feel, pressed against another pair. The way they interlock just so. The closeness. Arms around your neck and hair in your face. The moment just before when you’re nose to nose, and her eyes are right there. Hazel orbs only for you, smiling deep in expectation of what is to come. The only problem is choosing sides. I have to lean right. It’s just how I do it, because it feel closer. Flesh presses harder upon flesh and you can feel the heat in them.
She closes her eyes to kiss me. I know because I peeked.
‘You’re trying too hard, you know. You can’t force it’ she said from behind a steaming cup of coffee. Hands clasping gently, she sipped slow and silent and long. Elegance in simplicity. Art in motion. Beautiful.
‘Is there really such a thing? I mean, if you bang your head against a brick wall for a year you’re stupid, but if you switch in the middle to a fork digging at the mortar, and again to a cannon, aren’t you making progress?’ My own cup in one hand, fingers threaded through the cream colored handle. Warm and invitin, the cup was summoned to my lips. It only burns a little at the first sip.
‘If you haven’t broken through yet, no. It’s not progress, it’s insanity. You’re still trying to push through a brick wall, when the answer could be as simple as walking around it. You’re only seeing the obvious. Not thinking right’ she smirked. Her smile was more a grin, in the vein of cat caught the mouse. I could almost see the tail hanging from the corner of her mouth, just under her hazel eyes.
‘I hate you so much, sometimes.’
‘Only because I’m right.’
‘You’re only right because I’m wrong. If I were right, you’d be wrong. Unless we’re both wrong.’
‘Or both right.’
‘How do you do it?’
‘Wassat?’
‘Think like that. So fast. So sharp. So… so.. different.’
‘If I told you that, then you’d know. And we can’t have you getting even footing.’
‘I hate you so much.’
‘I love you too.’
There is apparently Fallen Angel in my Face and the Devil in my Tongue. This is not true. I have never had Wings that could be ripped out. I am only a man, whose mental anguish shows clear through wrinkles and bloodshot eyes. Through wearily spoken words and sometimes insane rantings. Downtrodden, but not out of the game. There is no devil in my tongue, it is not forked, and I don’t taste the air for my next prey. It has been sharpened by sarcasm and honed by wit, dangerous in their own right but hardly evil. I am pulled by the hand, unwilling, by hardship on the path to salvation through pain. But I protest every step, digging in my heels and clawing at her wrists. I do not seek salvation through pain. In all honesty, I would rather be damned than suffer more trouble. Tired, I plod along. If there is one thing I am good at it’s getting through despite it all. I always come out the other end of the forest to stand in the sun before the next trees are seen on the horizon, dark and dreadful. I am no angel or devil, only a man. A man who needs a day off.
Reposted from First50. I really liked this one. I really like using ‘…’ between words. I like thinking about racial memory linked to genetics. I like to write, sometimes.
‘Running.. wind.. grass beneath feet… sky above… the chase… capture and kill… feast..’ I spoke aloud amidst a small pack of onlookers. They heard, some scooting away, one woman looking nervously at me. ‘That’s what I think this tiger would say it was like before. Before confinement. Even if it was born here, I think it knows. Genetics tell it these things, passed down from generation to generation. The collective memory of a single species. Freedom.’
She gave a small laugh, the kind that is nervous and exasperated. She has no idea what I’m talking about. She thinks I’m crazy.
‘We all have these instincts. Primal and buried at the base of our brain, prowling in the subconcious. We want to run fast and far. You know what I mean?’
‘I get that feeling myself, at the moment.’ The tiger roared and she jumped a bit.
‘He’s just crying.’
futile attempts at literary genius 
speak no evil