Never Save Your Goodbyes

I had just started smoking again when it was her birthday party and the older people on the road tended to board themselves in for the winter. Like most parties back then, they consisted of petite lesbians juggling fire while we smoked hand rolled cigarettes, passing food around a small, friendly fire. Home made vegan brownies and a single spoon murmur, and almost everything has avocado in it.

Always tattoo your favorite piece of produce on you. Don't cut yourself with the bread knife. Let's give Molly the first piece of everything.

She had made guacamole and a drunk guy with a mustache was bothering me as I tried to eat it. He was dressed in a suit that was soaked with sweat. At the bottom of the stairs, a girl looked horrified that newspapers were being fed into the fire.

I gently point out Mustache's drunkness, and explain why others avoided him. He leaves without saying goodbye, and people try to find him in the streets.

Knowledge of narrow back roads will always reward you. The man who would end his night dead to the world in a lawn chair unbeknownst as girls got Facebook worthy photos with him had made some impressions that night.

Right before he spilled his pink drink all over the kitchen floor he mentions losing luggage coast to coast. He explains it's like losing your sword before crossing the river.

Television shows which feature non-aging characters are inherently creepy. Really, they are an abomination to nature. Some float through the years, maintaining a tenure as a perpetual child.

Analytical Analysis

Everyone is afraid of meeting a stranger. I speak to a large man with a beard. He is concerned about his parking, how his car may be a health concern to some one, maybe even himself. It's probably a lot worse when he's driving it.

He shakes his hands as if they're wet and mentions how that is another story. His words are so demanding, they rack his body, sweating alcohol out of his diabetic pores. His thoughts drift to bitter taste of vitamins in the morning, greasy soap cracking the skin on his knuckles. Car rides consisting of impatient cigarette ash on the pant leg.

Why do I think of these important things?

Strangers that approach me at intersections while I'm selling my weeks for hundred dollar lump sums make me accelerate towards curbs. A stranger could embrace you. Or annex the love of your life as she dances uninhibatedly. You can always throw an elbow at him, and deny it later. Maybe picture yourself taking out his legs and getting a few fore arms in.

A lack of socialism is barely an excuse, as trucks eyeball slowly looking for labor.

Their parties always border on Oregon Bad. Some nights there are only neighbors and weird relatives--the step mom's daughter with the nice guitar and good malt liquor. No one notices your port wine, so you can stain your lips red some more. Stranger here wants to know if you like Salvia and an obscure 80's movie.

The sound of silence cuts behind his head. Strange times already with mom sitting there. Get her out of here so I can vomit. She seems to want to touch me when I tell her I've got a job downtown. I don't really know her step daughter at all, or the people that I work with. Sometimes I like being a stranger.

Instead Take You

Internet I
Can't even lick, the test
eclipse reasons and drifts
bending with all the rest
You internet picture
makes my aim miss
emulating emotion
and a cold sense of cyber distraction
but still manges to battle sadness