History repeating

This is where we grow,
But it's hard for engines to evolve.
To me it seems like we were built for time-keeping,
But you swear it's the streets that doing it for us.
You're coming and I'm going,
And it's rather sad,
That your heart is racing but you're mind is slowing,
Calm down, you're veins are showing.
Angels are not in choirs anymore,
You notice that too?
They're running court controls and opening dollar stores,
But here I am with gum on my shoe.

Mountain Town.

"You have to have the appearance that you care."
This you told me while trying to tie an Ascot in your tie, and smoothing back your hair while make your reflection admit to the truth. I sat behind you on our bed, my legs stretched out, still slightly buzzed from sex, making patterns of the ceiling. This new place we were in reminded me of an old movie - with Victorian molding and brass fixtures in the bathroom. The communal hallway between apartments smelt of art and confusion, sometimes the weed smelled infiltrated and I loved the honesty of it. We weren't hiding here anymore, but here you were still talking about 'appearances' - but I knew it was just one for the money.
Here, in this new place near the ocean, we need only to concern ourselves about being all for 'one for the money.' In the other place with no beauty and sharks for neighbors, we were all about 'two for the show.' We were sideshow acts, the sexually explorable, adorable, and deplorable couple. We put our fingers on the stove to feel the sting of pain and to allow ourselves to speak gibberish for a night because it felt good to not make sense to anyone else. I am fluent in your gibberish. When you eyebrow arches and you are trying to be funny, and sliding your hands under my back and pulling yourself into me. We are gibberish, but we aren't sideshow attractions anymore here.
As you finish tying your tie and convincing the floor boards that you were substantial, I check our emails while you cruise our apartment, checking to make sure you forget nothing. Facebook statuses from the people back there resemble the Christian mumblins people spill out after a natural disaster ripped through their towns. Now they were praising the day's sunshine for no reason, and the buttercups smelled like salvation again - or some nonsense. Was it because we left their minds? I wasn't there to poke them with my liberal stick anymore, I wasn't there to spit back in their face the bullshit they spewed out. Their lives are TV shows with singing teenagers and living in their shoeboxes full of unreal expectations. But it all goes down better with a Limeade drink. We've been getting random emails here and there from the people back there that genuinely do miss us, telling us to take lots of pictures and to enjoy being in love - hoping you are doing well at your new job, and asking if i like my new university.
You turn my head from the computer and kiss me, hovering over me in this new suit and tie you're in, for this new job you're a vision of sleek and truthful elegance, in full support for the progression of lies in disguise of 'technical help'. Your hands run down the outline of me and you grab the fleshy parts of me, and soon you're mouth is full of me and we laugh for minutes before you know it's time for you to go for the day. Dinner will be waiting when you get home, you suddenly have a taste for seafood here and you prefer candles on the dining room table while we eat. You tell me now that it doesn't matter what the drones think anymore, we have to be in love everyday, we have to keep our hate alive, simmering in our pot bellies, keeping us warm.
Here we are in the middle of it, waiting for the earthquake to come, and we can run up the mountain together and watch our favorite storms. We like to count the lightening strikes and feel the rain on what feels like our 'shared skin' at times. Here, we are no longer on the murky surface of others palates anymore. They aren't tasting and testing us anymore, trying to turn us onto our backs to we can't turn ourselves over and walk over them. You grab my hand before you leave, and you breathe into my palm saying: "We're diving in life's cool waters."
We don't need oxygen anymore.

Ghost

I came out of this place with no air, (was it water?) where I dreamed of the nights when my mom and ad drove me through Fort Adams in Newport at night. Obscure songs I never thought I'd know on the car radio, my father was so alive. I'd sell my soul now to see him so alive again. He sang and told my mother that he loved her. He told me loved me. I am back in that velvet night again. He forgives me for being me, and we take a final ride. We are happy. I hate that he is not here. Would he be proud of me? I would sell my soul for one more velvet Fort Adams night where I believed my mother loved me and I had a family. But waking from that world is like coming up for air after being underwater - gasping for breath and something to hold on to.

motherhood.

Most girls, not women,
Long to be little women,
To,
Keep boys little boys and never men.
They say, "If you love me,"
"Then, you'll marry me, then give me, babies,"
And "..with babies, come eternity, yes, eternity."
Isn't that gracefully vindictive?
Glossy and colorlessly constrictive?
It's a love song to conformity.
A bag of bones, a bag of tricks,
She'll make you trade in your stick shift, for a,
Smooth ride SUV-mini-Van-Hearse hybrid, that,
Gets good mileage but better a worse pricetag.
A daily soccer candy-coated reminder of wanting better sex,
And a,
Bumpy ride to the baseball diamond of regret.
But, look at me as I lie still,
If I don't give you babies can I,
Give you thrills?
An endless supply of dirty jokes and warm whiskey,
And a, warm whisper of you escaping me, when,
There is no distance, distractions when you kiss me -
Nothing is sexier than silence.
Nevermind, I am wasted on the gray.
I am a bad influence and you should not stay,
They'll call me a runner, who went far away,
Mom lives in Ireland and paints all damn day.
They'll have my eyes, but they'll never know me,
I'll get pictures in the mail, but just don't show me,
Since I left.

for you.

Your cynicism and wit are the lie boat that keeps you from drowning in this vast sea of mediocrity.

Nameless

Nameless brushed her brown hair over her shoulder, while standing idly in the line at the grocery store checkout. She looked down at the shoes she was wearing, the fabricated hopes for acceptance in the workplace was the sole reason for buying them. They were "sturdy, classical, and colorful" according to salesperson who sold them to her months ago, and comparing to those glowing adjectives, the shoes were everything Nameless was not. Nameless was a shallow puddle of water, dripping all over any person she wanted to be and trying to become a part of them. Nameless was nearly a shadow at this point, mirroring everyone's moves and was a reflection of unoriginality.
When she got to the register, the young teenage cashier smiled out of boredom and corporate urge, and asked whether 'paper or plastic'.
See, questions were pipe bombs for her. Little geysers of lies and confusion, they set her off to stretch the truth till it fit around the waists of nearly every one she longed to be.
"Paper, please. The blank under sides of them are great, I paint on them when I run out of sketch paper." Nameless said, smiling. The cashier shrugged and smirked.
"Yeah, guess that's cool." Nameless smiled broadly and nodded, even as the cashier looked away. The whole seed of all of was that Nameless never drew, she couldn't even make stick figures look interesting.
Nor could she cook. Or did she ever go skydiving, like she once told a co-workers after she over-heard them discussing doing some a bit lighter - bungee jumping. Nameless never went to Italy, even though she shot her hand up in her college art history class five years earlier and announced to the whole class that she had - and that Da Vinci's "Last Supper" was just so different in person.
Nameless named met Madonna, or shared a personal trainer with Scarlett Johanson - but she told every one she had. Over and over gain.
While walking to her car from the market - a car she had chosen after seeing a commercial with it, being advertised by a tall but buxom model - and wanted not just the car, but to be that woman. Nameless was faceless. A blank roll of paper rolled to rhythym in her chest, like a heart, but unlike a heart, it didn't pump blood through her. But these blank papers were her fuel, to keep going and to keep searching. Nameless finger painted many different lives on these pages, all of them technicolor internal utopias that she could one day inhabit.
Every day, there was a new Nameless. She was putting her self on an never ending assembly line, being constructed and sharply defined by what other people did or say. There was big empty pit inside of her, being filled with buckets and buckets of bullshit and big black lies. Nameless knew plenty of circles and lept through many hoops. The friends in her book club knew her as nerdy and bookish as the summer days were long. The friends downtown knew her to order shot after shot - although not knowing Nameless chased them each with a beer, and spitting the shot in the bottle, not drinking it.
There was no Nameless. Was there ever?
Once you hammer lie nails into the fleshy veil of people's thought process, they stay there. Even if you take this nails away, the scars remain.
Nameless drove slowly out of the grocery store parking lot, passing the various shops in the plaza. A karate studio, "I could take karate, I want to be an athlete," she thought. There was a gym also there, and despite her utter dislike of exercise and fear of doing it in front of others, Nameless debated going in and filling out a membership application.
If there was a Nameless, she had went missing at puberty.
Where is the milk carton with her faceless face gracing the back?

Bed things

You are scaling around our bed like a spider scales walls.
I'm swimming in it, a backstroke, like in warm waters.
I can't leave you alone,
A piece of apple pie you are,
As American as an atomic bomb,
Going off and vaporizing any cynicism I got.
Got it?
Got it?
Go and rot it,
Ruin it and make me weak again,
Tell all of your friends that you couldn't resist kicking the dog,
when she whimpers at the door -
Tell them she was a whore, I was just a whore for your bed swimming activities.
But we were having fun, streaming home-made sex banners,
Frightening away all of our demons,
But the motherfuckers learned how to make us come.
Over and over again.
That's why they are such great demons.