Stay-cation
God bleeds down onto the skyscrapers,
And by the time his blood runs deep within the soil upon which you squirm, it has dried, and tastes metallic on your tongue,
But no matter is dried ice cream,
Frozen long, and long desired.
Rocky road.
Ice forming around your favorite chunks,
A cliffhanger if there ever was one,
And the vertigo fools your brain as the city comes into view.
Over the ledge there are cars and duct tape grids occupied by seatbelts rubber soles choking throats bitter gasoline - the price has gone up again.
It's one of those double-edged swords where inexpensive petrol burns brighter, and patrons are the only ones who get a discount related to their life expectancy.
But you know me.
I'm the guy to round the corner with a tank that'll break out in hives if it doesn't get its fill, and on that corner will sit competitors, arm in arm, laughing at their friendly game - a Mexican standoff, but everyone is on the same team. They wait for me to pull in, but I'm smart because I pick the trove that's six cents cheaper. My dad taught me to save money that way.
It's not the city that never sleeps because there's work to be done. No, not so naive. Rest is the righteous gift that belongs to those precious few with the clarity of mind to lay on mattresses they know they can't afford, which they saw in an ad explaining how the first step to success is a good night's sleep.
What right have I to express distaste when the pharmacy is closed on Easter Sunday, and medication resurrects me all the same?
It's not so bad, you see, because the freeways are empty and flowing like rushing sewage to an outlet undisclosed, and I'm too lost in my own head, coasting at a soft 75 to the hum of songs I only listen to at night, which in broad daylight seem to take on a new meaning, much like the uncanny sight of an owl on a palm tree in Malibu.
Maybe that's why you're so invested in the beach bod, beach bum, hair in a bun look that says, "If I were poor I would tell you, so don't just assume."
And while I deliberate on whether sand tastes good or not, I look back over the edge of the Mariott and in my brain I see myself jumping, but with grace, and it repeats over and over again (why tie a bungie around my ankles?) like a dream I'm having trouble shaking off.
The wind is cold, I chose not to bring a jacket, and even if I did I've never even owned any down clothes, and the next warmest thing is a cardigan I borrowed from someone who likes to smoke, which you'll never catch me in because people don't mind ignited petroleum but boy will they ring your ears the moment you bump a cigarette near a vegan cafe.
So there I am, the sky as clear as I imagined it would be from this high up, which is hardly at all, because the fog of hungry hippo war makes it difficult to count the number of offices in the complex adjacent to my own, and I tug at my collar unironically because I've seen stressed protagonists do the same in the movies.
I'm just like the heroes in the big screen, the little screen, anything with blue light and dead pixels. I'll fly, I'll fly right off the shoulder of this here Marriott like some Odyssean warrior off a towering cyclops; they are equally ugly.
Tall buildings are ugly things, exposed spines without all the cartilage, dry and stone-faced, as brisk as the air that whips my unshorn hair way up high above the dirt, if there is any left around here.
I punch out my arms, striking a respectable pose, but the legs don't give. My tights are too tight, and my cavs are sore from sedentary habits, and my cape behaves like a python around my neck, hissing as the air culls.
The steel beams climb into my throat and I want to shout to fools below but the wind carries my voice away, much like my desire to fly, much like my desire to buy gas, much like my desire to sleep, much like anything that hovers too close to the endless gleaming fields of windows, too close to the sun, Icarus don't look at me now, I'm naked!
In the distance a chariot falls, and it hits the ground.
And by the time his blood runs deep within the soil upon which you squirm, it has dried, and tastes metallic on your tongue,
But no matter is dried ice cream,
Frozen long, and long desired.
Rocky road.
Ice forming around your favorite chunks,
A cliffhanger if there ever was one,
And the vertigo fools your brain as the city comes into view.
Over the ledge there are cars and duct tape grids occupied by seatbelts rubber soles choking throats bitter gasoline - the price has gone up again.
It's one of those double-edged swords where inexpensive petrol burns brighter, and patrons are the only ones who get a discount related to their life expectancy.
But you know me.
I'm the guy to round the corner with a tank that'll break out in hives if it doesn't get its fill, and on that corner will sit competitors, arm in arm, laughing at their friendly game - a Mexican standoff, but everyone is on the same team. They wait for me to pull in, but I'm smart because I pick the trove that's six cents cheaper. My dad taught me to save money that way.
It's not the city that never sleeps because there's work to be done. No, not so naive. Rest is the righteous gift that belongs to those precious few with the clarity of mind to lay on mattresses they know they can't afford, which they saw in an ad explaining how the first step to success is a good night's sleep.
What right have I to express distaste when the pharmacy is closed on Easter Sunday, and medication resurrects me all the same?
It's not so bad, you see, because the freeways are empty and flowing like rushing sewage to an outlet undisclosed, and I'm too lost in my own head, coasting at a soft 75 to the hum of songs I only listen to at night, which in broad daylight seem to take on a new meaning, much like the uncanny sight of an owl on a palm tree in Malibu.
Maybe that's why you're so invested in the beach bod, beach bum, hair in a bun look that says, "If I were poor I would tell you, so don't just assume."
And while I deliberate on whether sand tastes good or not, I look back over the edge of the Mariott and in my brain I see myself jumping, but with grace, and it repeats over and over again (why tie a bungie around my ankles?) like a dream I'm having trouble shaking off.
The wind is cold, I chose not to bring a jacket, and even if I did I've never even owned any down clothes, and the next warmest thing is a cardigan I borrowed from someone who likes to smoke, which you'll never catch me in because people don't mind ignited petroleum but boy will they ring your ears the moment you bump a cigarette near a vegan cafe.
So there I am, the sky as clear as I imagined it would be from this high up, which is hardly at all, because the fog of hungry hippo war makes it difficult to count the number of offices in the complex adjacent to my own, and I tug at my collar unironically because I've seen stressed protagonists do the same in the movies.
I'm just like the heroes in the big screen, the little screen, anything with blue light and dead pixels. I'll fly, I'll fly right off the shoulder of this here Marriott like some Odyssean warrior off a towering cyclops; they are equally ugly.
Tall buildings are ugly things, exposed spines without all the cartilage, dry and stone-faced, as brisk as the air that whips my unshorn hair way up high above the dirt, if there is any left around here.
I punch out my arms, striking a respectable pose, but the legs don't give. My tights are too tight, and my cavs are sore from sedentary habits, and my cape behaves like a python around my neck, hissing as the air culls.
The steel beams climb into my throat and I want to shout to fools below but the wind carries my voice away, much like my desire to fly, much like my desire to buy gas, much like my desire to sleep, much like anything that hovers too close to the endless gleaming fields of windows, too close to the sun, Icarus don't look at me now, I'm naked!
In the distance a chariot falls, and it hits the ground.
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