Big Blue Scaredy Cat

Desert-sauntering mookah-smoker of the low valleys, live inside my knick-knack second-hand shop. My washing on the line, torn pantyhose wrap around the streetlight, and waltz. Living in the deluge of my newborn, floundering madness, my titilating pleasure, my knee-high school girl socks. Do you think of me when you shouldn't, and are you really doing much to exorcise me, at all? Poor, dirty, upside-down man, sound of old folk teasing the children, laugh like belly-ache jokes. Hold on to mamma, signal farewell to death. Baby don't make no sense of arms that wrap him in the byline of moving cars; and why don't mamma move, and who says parents know how to people?

I'm playing with danger in a controlled environment. I figure, if I jingle inside my pocket a bomb, they won't expect me to carry heavy laundry. Tick tock. Except, they've asked me anyhow. I made a pact with people to stop whistling if they stop coming down my street, except I forgot to shake on it, so now my palm's all covered in spit. Does it make me dirty, realizing I'm just not clean?

Basking in the sunlight, tan my cracked-like-heels, dry-like-chalk nipples in the eyes of neighbors. Outside greedy mouths. It looks like it's gonna be a long-drawn winter. And I, working on my so-called art. I wanted to ask you last night, do you find it hard, being a person sometimes, or am I just malware of a different kind?

If nobody hurt me, then how come I remember it so vividly when you hold me? And if so, then who, and how? Are there parts of me that, despite my best efforts, to this day, have remained hidden?

It's too sunny for October. I threaten the enighborhood as something that may disperse across the yellow trees, and dent cars across the street in my fall. I'm going down a path without safety rails. How much listening gets to be too much?

Do you think about your past a lot? I don't. Hardly know you, anyhow. Is there anything you'd change? Not me. Does it end when it ought, or when cauterized, sterilized strangers reckon you've had enough? This year's been a long web of abrupt deaths and overdrawn hospital stays. OF false fears, and the secrety squirreled potential of falling in love.

I only think about the past long enough to say thank you sometimes for not stranding me on islands I didn't belong. Don't mean I'm not scared all the time.

What if it turns out that just because it's dull enough to foster ignoring, you weren't actually meant to turn your blind eye? The more I understand about myself, the more I find there is to still be mystified by. And how can I then be entrusted to walk,a reliable narrator, across the mirage of my own tinged-sweet life?

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Of late, writing here like this has served as a sort of blind play, improvisational word jam that's been revealing and perplexing to me both at once. I realize it's not very far. I often question to what extent this qualifies as "content". Just because it's deeply private, does it mean it's worth something to you? And does my putting it here in turn make me something of a cheeky voyeur? Is it still voyeur if you're the one being seen?

I brought you music, anyway, because it's Tuesday, and hi, @ablaze.

Suntan remembrance of flexibility.

Endless drawn-out kisses, and leaning into each other's face, and blending our sweat.

Smell of charcoal in my bones on faux Christmas afternoon.