Stories & Stories

Thomas. California.

Who decided that we should ‘shoot’ emails?

The room with the red light.

The room with the red light.

"Come on baby, dance with me!" or, My beach shack face.

Lovely spotted smiles
gaining scuttled traction over seas of singular irises.
stopped only by
bits of lonely sand
stuck
filtered
and encapsulated
chewed
by opal teeth and regurgitated by the incandescent sheen of egg-white happiness. 

I pick up each discarded sheath. 

Half of me
anticipates the treasured grit within. A mystery. Something worth covering is something worth finding.

The other half
wants wholeness.
To string a series of 
discarded pearls to wear
and show I know
what happiness is.

I toy with the irregular bead
half anticipating
those beautiful smiles
to grab my hand, eyes brightened
and steal it away from me.

Instead
I
rub it between
my forehead and thumb
and use the wrinkles
between my fingers
to catalogue each
imperfection

stopping my glassy gaze only to slip,
like a dove sewn into a magicians coat,
the tiny pearl into 
a nest of rough canvas hidden in my pocket.
collated amongst
a million other lonely smiles.

Angels on the bus; Demons on the train.

They all had halos
reflections caught and diffracted in the
shakey shrine of a journey folded and amplified and reduced for
simplicity.

Their faces were tired, some of them.
Eyelids carried weight and the silted cheek of dusty words spoken lay fragmented over their muscles and 
trail worn shirts.

One paced
treading the
unimaginable distance with 
nervous rubber and plastic corners. 

Most sat.
Beautiful, organic creatures.
Casted down from the godliness they so silently thrived for. 
They all had halos.
And in the common jolt of well worn roads
supporting, cracking, blistering
under the weight of a million golden mirrors and mimickers,
they floated,
hallowed skin glowing in the midst of dirt,
grime,
emotions spent,
and time.

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He spoke of damnation.
The emergency light flickered
HELLFIRE.
Red blinking light.
His face was shrouded by the sweat of a thousand days 
willing away the light of the world.


"And the end will come…"

Spoke the tattered prophet to the steel frame.
All avoided his muses
but the emergency intercom 
rusted in brimstone breath. 

His reign continued and the cabin was silent.
The same silence that
the cold cool stillness of sanity, championed. 
The intercom wilted to death under his pressure
his torment.
He sat,
poised in misused disbelief.

Soot smoking
from skin, eyes, and mouth.

Got some new socks…

Got some new socks…

They don’t call it sunrise for nothing.

"Good morning, sir!" he smiled
shattering my freshly dried grimace
that I used to ward off the grime
of
others
morning routines.
He was smoking a crisp cigarette in front of one
of those new vaudeville low income housing
projects.

He looked ruffled but
I had never seen a smile 
so well folded.

He took that damned smile, 
gritting ash between his lungs and exhaling a magicians vapor,
and scattered my
jagged
and dusty mask with an infinity
of wrinkles and grinning eyes.

And he folded my lips,
(like so)
until I was something smiling too.

I was defeated
exposed to the joy of 
anothers lovely morning.

a blind man on
the early morning express bus
thrust his money
at the driver setting 
aside his walking stick
we all sat
ignorant
enrapt
patient

while the
bus driver counted with sticky-gloved fingers

God wasn’t up yet
but he refused to sin anyway.

Noise, din, and music.

Sound stacks.
It flutters through the mossy
carpet of a quiet room in 
the shattering of foot steps.
The same footsteps that would clap like a fallen leaf in the height of a fall gust unnoticed.

Sound consumes.
The smallest whisper fades into
a realm of shoe-box emotions
in the ring of a plaza
while 
it shivers the spin laced in humid
and languid sheets.

Sound clicks.
The lonely and toneless grey thud of a stressed drum plays a different, joyous tune paired with the voluble rays of string and reed and even skin.

Sound experiences.

One of the worst parts of giving away homemade bread (and there are very few, mind you) is that you may never see the ‘crumb,’ or inside, of your laboriously craft. 
This one turned out much better than I expected, with a decent spread of the larger bubbles. A little too tight knit in some places, but still a great layout. That bubble on the bottom right is definitely what I’m ultimately aiming for.
I’m just glad I brought it into work so that I could cut it open and give it a look. And a taste.
Much more tangy and sour than my San Luis Obispo sourdoughs. No idea why, but hopefully I’m doing something right.
More to come!

One of the worst parts of giving away homemade bread (and there are very few, mind you) is that you may never see the ‘crumb,’ or inside, of your laboriously craft. 

This one turned out much better than I expected, with a decent spread of the larger bubbles. A little too tight knit in some places, but still a great layout. That bubble on the bottom right is definitely what I’m ultimately aiming for.

I’m just glad I brought it into work so that I could cut it open and give it a look. And a taste.

Much more tangy and sour than my San Luis Obispo sourdoughs. No idea why, but hopefully I’m doing something right.

More to come!

California Capital. A few minutes walk from my work.

California Capital. A few minutes walk from my work.