Because I Can, Man.

Oh, and I'm on Vacation.

So things have changed and I can see it.
Like leaves or something cliché

In the city, feelings and things
They come together.

For like, “Real."

I can see by the face you made that I’ve got it right.
Yeah, I can see that. I’m feeling it right now. Captivating

Teeth like reeds on a sea-green lake. Obscure.
Ubiquitous.

Heaves. Heaving a something or other into a pile high of
Dirt filled ravines. It's a stretch, but I think I nailed it.
Coffins deep down like up in buildings packed three
By twelve

Grape it.
Ha, grab it you idiot.
Weak
Necessities

Leaves. Tangible.
Fragile.
Like human beings?

Desire. Delirium/Delight,
Dream.

Destiny.

Death,
Destruction and
Despair.

I got it!
Apprehension.

Like waiting to take a leak in a public restroom.
Someone turn the blowers on. Good god,
Someone run the faucets-What is this?

“We’re all trying to pee! so quiet!”

Alright, rock and roll all night.
Staying in. Drinking. Feeling mindsets.

Talking. Something like socializing.
A rare occurrence, specially on the weekends

By the way, are you going to catch me?
I'm riding way dirty.

it's weird.
treating every moment
as if it were your last.

i can't imagine
being here
without you.
and your quirks.
all your habits.
it makes me sick.

i was looking at
a book of pictures
the other day.

i was on your shoulders.
you made me laugh.
i fell asleep
upright
resting on your head.

we walked
around the lake
while glutons passed.

"he's asleep,"
they would say.

you still love
telling that story.

Vice

Do you remember what it’s like to believe in someone?
To really think that you’ve got a good thing going?
And then it hits you bluntly, you’ve missed
Good friends on weekends and countless hours of sleep.

I know how it feels to really believe in someone.
To think that I’ve got a good thing going
Only to have it blow up in my Face-
Book…. Welcome to the information age.

My mother knows what it’s like to really believe in some things.
Catholic priests caught her with fishnets when she was only
Fourteen. Now I go to church with her on holidays.
I think about the Virgin Mary.

Coincidence

A hiss. Something about a party resonates through his thoughts.
A woman. Today she’ll board a plane bound for -----.
A café that is musky and smells of sweat stained sheets.

Of all things in the 21st century, he dotes on the fact that he’s never going to see her again. A party last night for one of his friends still bleeds through the pores of his skin. Last night, a new bar opened. Last night, an old one shut down. He thinks about her three month trip to ----. She’ll be back in October. He hopes that he’ll forget about her by then.

A phone call interrupts day-dreaming. In response, he breathes out a hiss that sounds like a b-movie bombing. Hanging up, he mutters something bleak and continues to stare at a dull laptop computer screen. He’s lost in himself. He doesn’t notice a woman walking past him. Long hair. Small hands. She’s on the way to the airport to catch a flight that leaves at three.

He doesn’t see her as she walks down the street.

“Falling in love,” he whispers, “with the concept of a woman.” He doesn’t sound so sure of himself. He stares deeper into the screen.

A block down and she just checked her missed calls. Three from a man who wanted nothing more than to lay next to her in bed. She’s apprehensive. She deletes old text messages from him. A shiver strolls through the street. A block down and screaming, he feels its presence. He decides to pack up his belongings and leave.

“Feelings are trivial things,” reads a slogan etched into one of the café’s wooden tables. He thinks about how someone must have scratched it in with a black ballpoint pen.

And then a credit card is charged and then he heads for the street and then he’s cautiously sipping at a recently concocted latte. North of him stands a woman in a sleek black summer dress. She reminds him that someone somewhere said black was "in" this season.

"None the less, an otherwise listless silhouette in a summer dress," and turns his back. He proceeds south on the street but again, a cold shiver flushes over him…

“The warmth of a woman,” he sighs and thinks about one.
A block down, a lady hails a cab. In it, she passes a familiar looking stranger. She squints. She tells the drive to take her to the airport. Then she reveals that she is going to -----.

She's already forgotten about the man on the street.

Whiskeydrunk sex and Jesus Christ.

She turns to me slowly, those eyes locked in a dead stare. I need this, I want this and she does too. This is a declaration of affection, the feverish grasp of youthful abandonment. With a final methodical gaze at her face I kiss her, using my thumb and forefinger to hold her soft chin and hollow cheek in place. We sit in a room full of those we know. The host left twenty minutes ago and everyone is fighting over the last bits of sanity. She and I rise.

Without deliberation we sneak into a guest bedroom, the lights are on and the bed is small. We stand, kissing, embraced and locked in a moment of pure light. I need this, I want this and she's begging for it. The pink rush runs through my body like a strong drink, quickly erasing the traces of trepidation that may have remained. A disruption, an occurrence, a change of scenery.

A guitar case with a Jesus sticker. A twin bed with a white bar frame. Knowing the blocking for this scene I unbutton my shirt, she her pants. Soon following the script, we breathe frantic and interrupted in a whirlwind of clothes and flesh. She always hated that word. The lights went off, she was nude, I with a shirt on, slowly removing it, without a sense of direction in the blackened room. I flip the lights on once more, for footing.

I see her body, Christ she is beautiful. Her legs lay crossed, skin smooth and even. Her breasts sit, supported somewhat by her left arm, which holds up her head. I look down at myself, my stomach hangs over the elastic band of my underwear. My skin looks tired and riddled with moles and red spots.

I turn the lights off again and climb onto the bed. We kiss again, deep and passionate, her skin brushing the disgusting hair sprouting on my chest. Without any real preparation I enter her and she moans, I exhale deeply in agreement.

This condom is made of tar, I swear.

The drinks begin to spin my head.

I kiss her continually, hoping that something would redeem this slowly fading encounter. Her breath brushes against my left ear.

Nothing.

I pull out. I needed this, I wanted this, and like times before I let her down. After it all there was nothing to be spoken of but a shaken boy trying to carve his name into the stone walls of sexuality. She seemed impressed that I got it up at all. My cigarette keeps a sense of reality, my ego continually kicking me where it counts.

This is manhood.