Punks
From "Dollar Store Street Punk"
(photo credit Annika Phoenix)
A neon sign buzzes above the window ancient technology the mood of the street somber yet somehow animated moving to the music inside someone’s head I sit on the edge of the bed cigarette burning without my participation I feel somewhat intoxicated head spinning in a peculiar but familiar way the predawn hour in my blood heart pounding after sex as she sleeps next to me I know I love her that’s about the only thing that makes sense here a television drones in the distance and a siren crosses our path the sounds of the city fragments inside my head I woke up today and my brain felt damp like a sock thrown on the floor covered in the sticky wetness of the valley vaguely warm through the haze of an air conditioner barely keeping up I’ve been haunted by my own mind visions of absurd atrocities mingled with conversations with the dead and the physical sensation of needles and dying odd machines beeping away drugs pushed through worn out veins I didn’t feel like crying as I felt familiar tears gunk alive and squirming through sinuses she asks me if I’m alright I make up something mumbled in the dark she sleepily puts her arm around me and I stare at the tiny light pulsing from the smoke detector I hear machine noises in the distance repetitive rambling from far away patterns that aren’t real voices outside that I can’t be sure of I would strain to hear the conversation if I was sure that it existed slammed doors and muffled laughter emotional flotsam along an inky river I close my eyes against the noise bad news ringing in my ears because I can’t control scrolling force of habit keeping me awake while I find things to stop me from sleeping when all I want is silence We are all in varying states of decay the icy hand of death ever-present sitting on our shoulder a reminder that things infinite are finite in perception The wheel of time never stops in progression we lose ourselves consumed by the what and the how ignoring why because sometimes it is far too painful imagination running away with fear with the sickening feeling of being out of control There is no control in reality no magic switch or button things just are emotion and response and stimulus part of a kaleidoscope shards cohabitating into recognizable shapes and maybe the pattern makes sense as we analyze and catalog retaining records in hopes of predicting a future none of us have access to