I'm a fancy bulldozer. (A rambling)

Perhaps I've just known too many princes, and not enough Bobs.

I guess it being the day after would explain why I'm wrapped in cotton, with one numb hand, listening to the crackheads chant jungle book sonnets while I think about my next move. In the past, it has been within my mold to abandon, repent, regret, regress all the way up I-5, and all the way back down again. Back down where the flecks of sand whirl, and bite like a stampede of fleas, reminding you to stay alive, and keep moving, perhaps toward the modern, mild north. In the present, I am hog-tied, breaking fibers and stretching to lick a spot on the floor that I haven't already. In the present, I am no longer running incestuous mazes from nipple to navel of the west-coast but standing still, cloaked in rock and roll, whiskey and a fiery fearlessness faced - ice melting.

I am accounting for every fake, belligerent act of bravery, I've got two toes left and I'd rather keep them. I'd rather learn patience and pace. I'd rather eat cherries like flies do, talk of music and twirl your dna from knuckle to tip, of my fingers. I'd rather shed the dog bites, the rapes, and sombrero nights and crawl inside of the world as if it were a safe place to be, with you there, with someone there, of course. But these things are easily said, and rarely done. Fear is a paralyzing thing, it comes up behind you, like a murky, water god, and hushes you. It takes flight inside of you. It eats what pulsates first. And, eventually, when the pain has it's own address, you will find yourself here, at this two pronged, green sign wondering, 'what the fuck just happened'. It's The First Blossom on a Spring Tree Avenue and Everything's Totally Fine, Wait, Why Are Your Legs Bleeding Street. We are all given chances, rather we make our chances, and this morning, I saw one, a chance, a sliver of faith molested it's way into my logic and now I am here, dry-cleaned of every self indulgent, depreciating, and loathing excuse to get back on my knees and crawl south, so I can finally take step - and open. 

Open back up to the wind and the peace within it, how it can transform a towel into a magic carpet, ghost or white flag. Open up to the stage again, to the mic, to my font, to my mother. Open up to sea-salt beds of dead fish, and tennis shoes vs. heels. Turn the tv off. Turn the social network on it's back and fuck it hard until it looks just as washed up, as it really is. Open up my calendar to friends I may have overlooked. Open legs to the men and women who make me nervous. Open up, turn on.

Sorry, We're Closed.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.