{the power & the glory.}

friday.

this is a time and a place to focus.

can you hear me?


a drunken place and the smallest drink ever.
filled with bad sounds and old smells. the kind of place you feel an intruder. all the speech is loud and slurred. the scent of vomit lingers in a boxed-in cancer factory. separate from the world. part of the world.
i just saw the handsome bike shop man. careening up the avenue. glazed like a delicious ham. i see him sometimes, around this part of town. he's a boyish manly. tall and deep-voiced. makes me want to spend too much money on bike parts and accessories. and how many women in this city have mentioned these same words? about a bike shop boy. a lot...

"you must feel real outta place here. yer waytoo fine to be in this here establishment."
"never been here."
"well, i don't come here often (lie) but yer way too fine fer here."
"i prefer this any day.."

it's true. give me the dive. sad old drunken men, playing the part of boys. drinkindrinkindrinkin. the bar's no place to meet people of merit, i say. i'm in and out. ghostly. a breath. don't sit and talk at me. i've got nothin to say. i'm just pondering the glorious wilderness. and that bike boy. so leave me be. there's no loneliness within me. just some maker's mark. i'm a tough ol broad, just doin my business. and this bar was someone's dream once. now they all run around screaming.


they beg me for my poise. my blessings are many. beg yer pardon? pardon? pardon. sweet smells have entered the scene. it's a friday. let's let our hair down. dangling. my face is at your feet, stranger. i would take your hand, and gladly. let's forget these lives. find us some new ones. be righteous. i can say. for a fact. that i will. make a wonderful wife. if you'd have me.


fireworks & freeblood.
"is this the end of the line?"
in this hipster haven....? no answer. just a cold stare, through the mascara jungle.

smells so sweetly. like something used to. some memory. i can feel it in my bones. standing in line for the bathroom. some man growls verbal howlings into a microphone. full bladders. doin the dance. no one wonders. why i jot. i can't even say that i know. it just happens sometimes. like now. all the cool kids. all the cool kids in town. save us. save us. we're so young. somehow this became a free ride. the men. the hugging. the pheromones. oh God. my young lust. it kills me slowly. but not very often. and only sometimes.

and tell me this, my friends. in your clothes. with your skin and your cigarettes. tell me this, i want to know, when you are drinking with your hair done in that specific way where it doesn't move, and is constantly over your eyes. when your boots are so in. and your breast are so full. and you don't give a fuck, and you're eyeballing the crowd of men, and could do anything you please. you're a powerhouse of sexy and the way you stand against the wall is so specific. with your body, and you're laughing and you're laughing all the time, with these fucking hot friends of yours. and you all look so good together when you go out. i mean come on come on come on. i want to smell the answer as it passes by your white white molars. tell me this: what do the young bloods become?