We were a cute couple even three years before we were a couple…. though Dan seems to disagree
▲1 | reblog
I am Moses, or at least I feel like I am. Splitting this body of water & making my way through to where I will be meeting them. These people on such high pedestals, get off your high horses; we are all the same so let that be a thought that reinforces its claim. I am lead here by this last minute chance at a momentary savior at first glance. A Mexican man with blackberries at hand, chauffeuring a white van. He lets his excursions be shared within who comes; A Jamaican with many stories I overhear, good advice on how to steer. That voice with no face that speaks about “the brothers”, I can only imagine an English encapsulated African American distinguishing himself from the others. At the very back, a Russian girl; someone’s sister, her entire World. Her dialect is not the same of those who teach, still I do not understand either speech. In the very front, a Swedish boy; sweetish mythology & books about psychology. He seems whipped, like the cream in his coffee, like the uncertainty in the few words that slipped. And somewhere amongst the sum that makes us more is a Spanish Harmony that I adore. I would have given up my plans for a conversation, I believe I re-encountered his familiarity at one of those arriving stations, this station. And upon arrival, I reiterate the same scenarios that occur time & time again left to be Ontario’s. Friends that come by, friends that I leave behind. Well, the shoes of those who are high greet me when I come by & there is a miscalculation in this seemingly endless supply. Some mathematical formula for too much to drink, another underestimated tolerance for intake; makes my head shrink. But foreigners with cover bands, indulge in art forms I respect but mostly reckless behavior & fast feet; by now I am wrecked. And the faces of kids hung up in the halls of fame, I could not make out only by their name. Their silver hair reflects the colors of what’s around; street cars and entrances to trains underground. We speak of a friend’s father and the bars around flash and bother. I am with previous strangers, near by girls who sell themselves to any buyers.// Suddenly lost, I feel total exhaust. So goodbye Californian men, I’m sure we will meet again!
We turn the page, 70 hours of restlessness in which I engage. Where salsa dancers interrupt an already interrupted collection of non-sense dispensed, an occupant distraction that we weren’t against. And incidentally, I run into my words; a woman I know, one who gave her heart to a minstrel man she will never meet many years ago. He has taken bones as his form in a grave under a tombstone.. or perhaps he is scattered like dust, some kind of decay in a gust./ She carries, on her arm, a coconut around town. Brown & round, with a fibrous husk; but only at this time, it is now dusk. She will not take it back to her home to sleep, coconuts are not for breakfast, not one that she chooses to eat. Perhaps this one is fruitless to her, or it was not aged right, not well or ripe. And at this time, my mind is in remnants of distorted logic that guide me away on a sidewalk of faces with smiles and good nights imprinted on their display. In this immediacy, a tall figure arises to look up to; a friend I suppose, someone to whom I say hello. And I don’t believe that it is what I needed, the redeemed deprivation of sleep is for what I waited & yet I stayed juxtaposed to what I had previously stated. But it was a conclusion, a reenactment of the past’s diffusion; Faces I seem to always meet again & places I visit now & then.
