and when the wind kicks up sharp and cool and the halloween orange and the platinum yellow dance and applaud -

the blue only sways.

it burns hot. steady. unwavering.

the blue.

it only knows to burn. a base level instinct written for that flame specifically at that time, on that day and so on.

as hot as it can. as long. ever.

this is how I love her.

I love you like blue fire.

valentines day 2012
xoxo -c.

 

it would also be some type of arrogant, pissy thing to stretch it out too awful much.

so I’m gonna tell you this story and try and hit the sweet spot. ready? cool.

*

there’s me and the Kid driving through lovely *snort* downtown Baltimore and we’re doin our thing. we have a way about us and it works and she tells me about her day and shit she’s thinking about and, I still don’t know what to get The Dreamy Boy for valentines day. he says he wants a (insert toy here).

and then there’s a pause like I think it’s my turn so I start in and she screeches, I’m not fiiiiiniiiiished….

then finish up, junior. by all means.

and then it happens again and it’s all the same until we start peppering each other with such gems and zingers like: fine then. FINE. what? oh, shutup. no…YOU shutup. YOU shut your cake-hole. No…YOU shut your PIE-hole. howzabout YOU shut your sock-hole (this makes no sense but it’s funny to think of dirty socks in your arch nemesis’ mouth so we go with it and that’s how we roll.)

so we’re doing that today. verbal assaults peppered with smiles and giggles and if there were those tiny milks that you used to get in school, I’m sure it would come out of one of our noses. and near the end of our verbal fencing match she pulls out the .50 Desert Eagle of “you shutups” with this piece of genius…

you shut your delicious hamper.

I know. I wanted to give her a mic so she could drop it and exit stage left.

’cause “delicious hamper?”

yeah.

delicious hamper.

this news.

this excitement.

but…

I keep looking over my shoulder because I know that I’m being followed. I know this because I know this and that’s all and I reckon that’s a good thing because it keeps me sharp.

knowing that there are shadow figures in puddled, dark alleyways.

waiting. watching. plotting.

it’s good to know that they’re there and in a weird masochistic way, the sense of that keeps me level. a real backward peace. like if an angel choir sang Scandinavian black metal songs.

so, back-alley shadows, know that I know you’re there.

know that in my giddiness and foolish merriment, I reserve a bit of back-in-the-day steel.

I am ready for you. much as I always was and I always will be. your existence is a soft pillow to me. you can be the big spoon or the little spoon, it matters not to me. sweet dreams, jellybean.

you and your dark puddles will not ruin this.

I swim in a bottomless ocean of love and good fortune. I am soul-rich and my motorcycle will sometimes start on cold winter mornings and the ice isn’t as slippery as all that and in third gear with the throttle full and my head snapped back – I feel god kiss my cheek as the devil gives chase because it don’t hurt to be h(a)unted by something.

I am sunlight and wildflowers and forest floor and fire.

-bourbon helped write this. for good or ill. you’re welcome.

it was ten in the a.m. and the late sun was being poured through the transom light – the bathroom one on the south side  – like it does just so about that time on regular days and she walked into the living room wearing nothing save for a swath of Target cotton while steam followed in a fairy tail breadcrumb wake.

the thoughts claiming residence in my shitty, factory floor brain were foreclosed upon like, a violent wind – BLAMMO!  in flat-ass Kansas topography when you see it on the news.

complete devastation with tears and the whole thing.

I reckon the sunlight stayed for a bit. and it hung there and speckled and fuzzed like the off-air local station(s) – the same as it always does, until she closed the door and then it was gone like the way it always did about that time.

in the battle between hours and kinetic energy, it’s a toss-up on who/what gets dibs. mostly.

*

sometimes, in the bat-shit crazy, silent hours before the real morning starts burning indigo fuel, one can’t be sure what the Mayans had in mind as it regards “days” as we definitively understand it to be. and when the deck oven(s) gets too hot and I have to take the air and there’s that Indigo color sneaking up on me it feels like the old days when someone hit you closefisted by surprise. things rattle and there’s electricity and a primal howl.

not unlike seeing her in Target swath unannounced.

and it reminds me of starting over and seeing everything through the eyes of children like the way the greeting cards say.

and I mean that in the Bad way too. in the way when the rug gets pulled out from under you and all the dust that you swept under there, before, on those summer days at mid-morning  and it swirls up and make you sneeze. like the way when you never see it coming.

i mean it both ways.

*

blinded and sidetracked by wet hair and bare thighs and sneezes.

what a crazy heart that is inside me.