Tower Submission: Could

this goes in an order and each segment is titled...for the tower, based on a conversation with a friend...



In The End, It Doesn’t
I stand, looking in on a window display in the sex shop down the corner from my apartment. Looking at all of that vibratory glory, illuminated by the glow of electric-neon sex, I marvel. Like someone at an idol, all I can do is look and wonder and imagine and fantasize. Throwing my cigarette against the brick, I watch the explosion of ash and smoke, turning away, walking back to the apartment. Passing the homeless on the trek back towards my living space I start to wonder about what could be, what could have been, how I can handle my current situation that I’ve been stagnating in. Brushing off the grimy hands outstretched toward me and thrust in front of me, holding out for a spare bit of change or a cigarette. Suckers.
How would she see me if I could be seen by where somewhere, skried and oblivious, continuing along my predestined road? It creeps me out thinking that I’m not the one determining where I walk, who I talk to, fuck, ignore, rip-off, and eat with. Where is she and what is she doing?
Her hair always smelled of peppermint, and the wind always seemed to blow it in my face when we were outside, meandering, the tips catching the end of my nose and making me sneeze.
3.02 AM.
What would she do if she knew?
3.06 AM.
Stop being a pussy, just call her and tell her. No, don’t do that. Ask her to meet you somewhere. Or drive her?…
3.15 AM.
Fuck it, nevermind, it’s better that I don’t say anything and she just goes…
3.18 AM.
But is she happy? You know you aren’t…
3.30 AM.
Hit by the bus. Oh well…

Ecclesiastes
I stand outside, watching her make her way to the library; puffing on a cigarette, watching her walk away in my hoodie. She’s cold, I’m not, in fact, I’m burning. Where is her boyfriend? Why am I giving her my stuff? Fuck it, it’s just a hoodie, you’ve got at least a couple more. Inhale, exhale, rinse and repeat. Mmmm, that buzz, better that than actually being drunk for class. Well, maybe not, depends on the teacher…
Hmm…I am playing a show later this week, maybe she would come to that? No I think I asked her already…well not asked, but mentioned that I was playing somewhere, and I can’t remember if she said she would come or not. I can’t be obsessive, but I would like to know if she is coming or not…
Fuck it, if she’s there then she’s there. If not then,,,well what do you mean “ if not then…” you know that you aren’t gonna feel any less about her if she’s not there…
I stub out and head inside, bracing myself for the bombardment of questions and the hour of acting interested even if I could care less what this author thought about this that or the other.
I don’t really know anybody in the class, other than the professor, and there is a guy there that sits next to me and makes obscene references under his breath while the professor talks…
What are you doing she has a boyfriend, she isn’t interested in you any more than she’s interested in any other male friend she has, she’s happy, she’s in a relationship, and you are a fat sack of stupid. End of story.
I hope she comes to the show…

For The First Time
We sit together on her balcony, smoking pot, talking about whatever. I can’t really remember now, but I’m sure it was interesting and intelligent and witty. Should it come out? What should the next thing I say relate to, the last thing I said or the last thing she said? or should I just ignore her and myself and just talk?
I think I’ll sit and just respond. I hope I don’t say anything. Don’t say anything at all, or have you and you just don’t realize it? She’s really smart, she probably knows…just say it…no that’s a bad idea. Your turn to hit that…
Maybe I can act Tommy, ignore everything, that way I can be sure of not saying anything, but I guess if I act Tommy I can’t hear or see either…

Does This Matter?
Mention whether or not you can feel anything? Oh right…That must suck. Really? That’s smart. Uh-huhn…right…yeah…I know that…I’ll be sure and remember to do that…right, whatever, at least I haven’t…what?…why?…ME?…you’re the one that always, no no, that’s you, that’s why…look I’m sorry, I can’t. nevermind. No there are people over…yeah so what if he’s over? So? Maybe I’ll call back, maybe I won’t, then you can wonder…whatever…yeah…yeah…mm-hmm…yeah…okay…right…yeah…uh-huhn…yeah…bye.
Click.

Within, Without
Logic tells me that she doesn’t care, however, I hope that I am picking up on things that she is doing to grab my attention. I hope she angles to sit next to me when we are in class…I hope she asks me over to spend time with her cos she likes me as well…I have no idea though…I hope we are getting together tonight, I think we are, but maybe not…she’s good at hiding things…does she? Doesn’t she?
Electric buzzing in my pants affirms that we are indeed still meeting, I just have to actually talk and receive what I know to be true. We are getting together at seven to see some movies, her roommate leaves after a while, and then it is the two of us, alone, sterile and obtuse, watching the movies, her in her own little place, me in mine…
I can’t do this for very much longer, I have to say something…what if something happens…I always joke about being dead by thirty, but now I wanna have a reason not to…
Waiting for the phone to ring in my pocket, waiting for an invitation…I need no such invitation as we are sitting in their living room, common room is what I keep calling it, and we have now watched the entirety of Fight Club, a movie she never saw and her roommate didn’t want to, but in the end I had my way. Doesn’t matter past that…
Instead, her phone lights the room, darkened to watch something on television. She looks to see who it is and answers.



z

???

Drugs make the time pass quickly, get rid of the awkward moments, exchanges between strangers. The immediacy of a cigarette, the soft orange glow of a bowl of marijuana, a soft, gritty snowfall ready for nostirial consumption. Seen through the haze of an amphetamine rush, the schoolday seems blue-gray in comparison to the vibrant purple shades of a mushroom-fuelled stupor. Charismatic consumption of highly illicit substances are the zenith of college, high school, its all the same in a cafeteria; bragging rights to strong drink, weak bud, and easy women, last night’s fuck the most story worthy of the day.

Funereal procession to the next class begins at 12.30, 1.45, 2.00. failure to comply results in swift and immediate punishment…or none at all. Take the risk, roll the dice.

Talk about things that increase your “cred” or listen to a slight, bearded man bombard you with questions.

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why?”

Keyboards and shitty computers eat the paper, the students’ own fault for not saving to a flash drive, the poor, indolent bastards.



z out

Give A Gift

He wanted to give her a present, his sweetie, 1000 miles away. He sealed himself up in a box, too poor to afford a plane ticket. Besides, this meant door to door delivery and free (cheap) airfare. He was packed up and delivered rather promptly, the food that he packed sustaining him just until he should be at her house.

As she accepted the package, he could hear her voice and his heart leapt into his throat. As he felt her set the box down, his heart sank as she walked out of the room. He could hear her return and stand near his shell. He waited expectantly, to see what she could be doing…surely she would open it soon…

His heart jumped and quivered as she brought the scissors down, opening the box, and penetrating the soft amalgam of flesh and bone at his temple.


z

Her

Her hair was a whisper under my palm, holding the side of her head, staring into her dark brown eyes.

“What?” she asked, her brow furrowing. I shook my head and muttered nothing, holding her gaze, my glasses off. There is no barrier between our eyes, no degree of separation, my forehead pressed against hers.



z
written Feb 24 2006

Fight Club

His fist crashes into my side, an explosion of pain and breathlessness. An open palm strikes my face, a gunshot on top of a bee sting, more heard than felt. My tongue gnashes out at my teeth, my lips and cheeks already split where his fists have crushed my cheekbones. Who knows how much blood had spilt from my lips since then…

At first I wanted to fight back, more angry at the slaps and insults than hurt by them, but then once the hands closed, that anger turned quickly into helplessness, timidity. I would much rather crawl into a hole and lick my wounds than beat some motherfucker’s head in right now…

I don’t even know who they are, they just jumped out of a van, the kiss of a sap at my head, then darkness. When I woke up I was handcuffed to this chair that rocks back and forth, side to side, underneath me, as the beatings continue. I cant even feel it anymore, just the movement.


z

Horror Movie

His moustaches swing, pendulous and epic, as he runs through the low gurgling water. The water sprays into his eyes as it is kicked up by his knees, pumping almost as high as his chest. Shaking his head to get through the burning, he looks back, over his shoulder, at the stitched-together person chasing him, the strong, powerful hands hold the scissors made for cutting flesh and bone. Or branches from a tree. They suit the purpose for now.


z

Nightmare Cinema

I close my eyes and flip on the nightmare cinema, holding images in my head that speak of tired amalgamated violence. The night things that hold me, caress me, steal away my dreams, replacing them with a cacophony of scenes; cobbled together by a hermit, razor and cigarette, intent on my lack of sleep. Flame licks my thighs, sweat covers my back as the horror is expelled with a shaking seventeen second shudder, 30 FPS, shutter length 2.6 " , dimly lit back alleys…

horror turns to blowjobs; blowjobs and fucking. Serene, gossamer shadows and fake plastic fuckbuddies that hold my senses in a rapt dying amazement. Long blonde hair, handlebars, big silicone buoys that hold no greater fascination to me than a warm wet hole, made to be stretched and held. No love is made here, only fucking. Fucking…

and eating. I had no dinner, nor did I brush my teeth…

Listerine shining in orange dayglo luminescence, burning like so much lye in such a tight wet spot, pain hidden in an aura of burning, a cleansing fire. And water, drowning out liquid pain in an attempt of murder, wrapped in a cushy envelope of safety, warm to the touch, squelching the cold out of my body, like a sponge, but in reverse…

squeezing out the craven images from my bloated mind, perverted by nights of reading pornography and bloodshed. Red stained pillowcases, a scarlet letter, aunt irma, spilling from my nose, branding the comfort or my head with warmth and wetness, the taste of iron, ball of steel in my belly, the tonsils dyed to match my face in the cold left behind as the fabricated air hits my face, the small plastic blades creating temperature from lies…

hot like passion, cold like hate, deference spilling from my lips in a waking moan, disorientation striking the fragile eggshell mind of the dreamer.

Start here and you realize that this is all a dream, a dream that did not happen.

I lie.


z

The Ash

The ash falls away from me in an inhalation. It spirals and falls, dancing merrily between us, caught in the wind, given freedom. It looks like a slow, polluted snowfall, scattered and ignored until I breathe in. once that happens, it pushes away from me, my movements to catch it only pulling them between my fingers, just out of reach, though I could touch it if I wanted to. I can’t hold it, only touch. After that, it leaves. Or I do. The wind pushes it, my breath pushes it. When I breathe in, I hold it in rapt funeral amazement, lingering, waiting, coming closer.

Finally it takes its place on the velvet jacket she is wearing, my velvet jacket, now hers. I shiver in the cold, shiver in my leather coat, smelling of impending death and sweetness. I pinch the ash from the jacket, pulling it from the clinging fabric (it picks and holds things). She makes a questioning sound; I feel it in my chest, feel her jaw graze my collarbone as she lifts her head.

“Nothing.” I say. She moves her head back to where it was.


z

Drinking

I throw my head back, feeling the burn that goes with the territory of drinking large amounts of whisky in a single span of drinking. Frat boys and idiots try drinking this way, and usually end up vomiting most of what they take in. the times when that happens, it makes a man want to cry, what with all that whisky going to waste.

I put the bottle down. The warmth spreads from my belly out into my arms, legs, fingers, toes. Heh. Head, shoulders, knees, and toes (knees and toes.).

Sweat drips off the bridge of my nose, spatters on the toe of my shoe. I follow the path it took with my eyes and it takes me a second to realize why I’m sweating.

I shrug my shoulders and pass the bottle from hand to hand as my jacket hits the ground behind me.



z