— Jack Kerouac (via madtolivee)
”You were never no locomotive, Sunflower,
you were a sunflower!”—Allen Ginsberg
grounded and staring at the sun
ever-reaching and straining and turning
toward that unattainable light.
in that golden hour of evening
countless seeds have fallen
from heavy-headed weariness.
fallen to rust and grime
as locomotives, ever-steadfast,
blow black billows of virility.
it’s so easy to be caught up
in the clanging mechanism of motion
-the rail gets hot as the whistle blows-
but morning light awakens phloem & xylem
bearing vitality to a lilting heart
amidst derailed flotsam & jetsam.
don’t look away when the sun starts to burn.
let it set your spirit aflame—orange against grey
and remember: you were never no locomotive…
but that don’t mean you won’t be a train.
Completely paralyzed. My eyes are fettered to the corner of her mouth. She sits with her chin on her fist, attentively listening to his account of how his funds were frozen upon arriving in France, forcing him to find work sweeping in a sad corner bakery. Now they’re talking about baguettes. And croissants. And buttery, flaky delicacies, and he asks if she’s ever been.
No. But she desperately wants to. And while she smiles and laughs, it’s the corner of her mouth that he eschews. That slight, subtle, downward pull where her upper lip makes a sloping crease toward her supple lower lip.
She isn’t sad. In fact, she is having a wonderful time sipping chai during lulls in their conversation—but the corner of her mouth.
That gravity that weighs on the crimson petals that burn newly fallen snow: the same force that draws my hands deep into my empty pockets and lifts me up by my shoulders. As I wait by the counter for my decaf, she notices it.
She’s waiting now for my hand to emerge and grasp the cup. She favors restraint and notices my apprehension when I remove the lid.
Her eyes stray from my fingers and linger too long on my uncomfortable countenance. I inhale sharply as the crease deepens at the corner of her mouth.
She flashes that completely disarming, boxy smile, but at the corners remain a plaintive contemplativeness.
I’m crushed between incisors. I crave the aftertaste of her chai now, and later, she will taste the whiskey on my tongue.
But first, let me kiss the corner of her mouth.
All of these thoughts as she walks past me and out the door—and goddammit if the rustling of the Bulletin from the influx of the Autumn breeze doesn’t’ muffle my vow to love this girl endlessly, until her hands find their way into my pockets and she leaves a deep crimson stain at the corner of my own wintry mouth.
I’m trying on socks in the mirror. These ones are alright…a bit pedestrian. (The last thing you want your socks to be is pedestrian.)
Three pairs and five minutes later and I’ve settled on my new brown work socks. The ones with the attractive orange band on the inside of the top edge. It falls about a third of the way up my shin, but I have to fold it over so that the narrow orange stripe is exposed.
My pants are still too long.
So now I’m deciding how many times I should cuff my jeans. Two gives a good sliver of sock when standing and gives it all away when seated.
Three and I’m a barista who prides himself on his latte art.
Brown socks. Folded over. Jeans cuffed twice. And I’m ready to hit the road.
I know how good I look (SEXY SOCKS), but when you have me undressing (under duress) I notice an elastic line on the skin of my ankle where red irritation laments the loss of leg hair.