apartment search nightmare

...and when I came up the stairs there they were at the top, all piles of flesh and tattered clothing and decomposition and stench. Who were these poor twenty-somethings? Why was it that all I wanted to do was check out my new room and was now suddenly faced with this horrid, and frankly inconvenient, scene of Jenga-stacked death?
Stepping over the mass of flesh, I entered what was to be my new abode. It was rather small, but suitable for my meager task of writing stories and excercising my ambitions at being a bedroom rock star. The two, LP sized, windows directly across from the door were adequete for at least affording some of the grey light that so often served my sight in this post Re-Evaluation town.
Immediately I set out at visualizing where all my furniture would be arranged. This visualization method I had used in the past and it had served me quite well in efficiently setting up my workspace. Efficiency is my mantra, without it I am merely another person wasting time. If you waste too much time you end up like those shitheads piled up outside my door; dead, gone, and forgotten , with nothing left to show but the tired tattered threads you decompose in while awaiting the garbage man. Unfortunately for the poor inhabitants of this stack of flats on Royalty Ave. here in the heart of lecher-land, the waste management facilty went up in riotous flames after the landmark Virginia case ruling.
After those judges decided that the affirmation of class distinction would be predetermined at birth, after which no amount of cajoling could break one from their caste, the natural response of the nutritionally weakened, but angrily strengthened majority class of peasants, paupers and general poor, was to smash and set flame to anything within arms length. The irony was that it was the few services still left that actually positively served the populace that were hardest hit. And so not only had any semblance of ambition been legally stripped from the people, but also many of the services providing the basic necessities for survival. And this, my friends, was the place I called home for what turned out to be a hell of a lot longer than I had originally intended.

Blown Away

Back when I was a balloon, joy was an emaciated concept. We had crossed paths a handful of times, but for only an instant. Like when crumpled in an alley with no distinguishable difference between my forest green latex inner and outer shell, piled in amongst a variety of leftover birthday party favors and melted ice cream cake, a cat, possibly a tabby though most alley cats have that dirty orange and white-turned-grey-coat-look happening, came skulking up to my would be dessert style grave and began veraciously licking me.

There is something about sandpaper on deflated latex, it makes this strange dragging sound, sort of rake-like I guess, but like a rake gliding through Jello. It felt amazing! The minute her tongue began caressing me the stuck together folds of my normally smooth sides slowly started separating until I could distinguish between my inside and outside, and there was a sudden rush of air that cascaded into me, further amplifying my lust, born from being tongue-bathed by the feline street walker. It was a dirty baptism.

Utterly determined to get every inch of me she got so carried away she lapped me up into the moist hot between her upper and lower rows of jagged and occasionally missing teeth and there I basked in the tropical climate; wriggling in the plethora of tastes; soaking them into my rubber skin until I couldn’t distinguish one from the other. The only way I can think to describe it is the flavor of dying in your sleep. It was soothing; peaceful. I can only imagine what all she had been into that day. I mean she lives on trash and rodents so you would think that to even catch a whiff of those fermented vapors would have melted me into nothing more than a green molten blob, but the combination made for some sort of filthy aphrodisiac.

With me dangling from her lower jaw she ambled down alley ways; deftly over fences and between motionless cars; through the park at the center of the city; and into a small patch of discreet trees over the hill the kids drag their saucer sleds to at the first sign of a few inches. There she curled into a ball at the base of a massive rhododendron where she proceeded to drop me and lick her tattered fur. Now I have to say that I was completely startled at her sudden abrasiveness, I mean I felt like we had something going what with her licking me in my unspeakable regions and all, so when I hit the various sticks and leaves that lined her little garden sanctuary I was startled, and frankly a bit hurt. It seemed she had suddenly forgotten about me. I mean imagine going from the height of sensual bliss, to being literally spat out onto the dirty cold ground. It took me a moment to come to this realization. My first instinct was actually to check for tears in my skin, after all being a balloon you get put through abuse pretty regularly so it just sort of becomes second nature. One small tear will assuredly crush your hopes of ever inflating again. Luckily, other than my ego, I was unmarred.

So there I sat, a wet ball of latex covered in flecks of dead leaves and decomposed tree bark while this tease of a being loomed over me pleasuring herself with the same sandpaper tongue that had just moments before been lapping me up like a bowl of freshly finished cereal milk while secretly telling me everything was going to be okay; that there was nothing to worry about anymore. Then I saw it. Right there on her ratty-ass fur soaked in like it had been there for days; and her just tonguing away at it like it were cat nip or something. It was the neon blue swirl that gave it away. Then it all became as clear as helium. That bitch just wanted the ice cream all along!

Needless to say she finished pleasuring herself and ran off completely forgetting all about me. Meanwhile I was stuck in the woods, cold and now totally plastered together in a wad of spit, ice cream and decomposed forest shit. I can say for sure that it was not one of my best moments. Worse yet I had no idea how I was gonna get out of it.

Some days passed, but to tell the truth I’m not very good at telling time so it could have been a month for all I know. Anyway the leaves had pretty much all fallen off the trees, leaving me sort of buried, but the rains had at least washed away my stickiness so now I was just dirty. Luckily the onset of autumn brought on some serious winds and soon I was gliding along the breeze at a healthy clip. I miss that. Gliding along free and full of air, not caring what direction you go or where you land. But this time wasn’t like the others. There was air in me but I wasn’t inflated. It’s different. Inflation makes you light and floaty. Sort of wisp-like. I was never in a hurry when I was inflated. But now I was deflated and blowing along and it just seemed different. I mean I was glad to be out from the woods and on the way to somewhere, but I guess I just didn’t feel the confidence. I was all nervous about where I might land; what would happen to me next. I guess I was just trying to protect myself. And this is the messed up part; I actually was thinking of how I was glad that I wasn’t inflated because if I were then there was this chance that I would burst. And at that point, that thought just devastated me.

When I landed in between the Velcro straps of her size six bubblegum pink tennis shoes I knew I was home. Maybe it was just the exhaustion of my travels, or the delirium of days riding the wind. Whatever it was it felt right. As if stray weather-beaten deflated balloons landing at her feet were an everyday occurrence she scooped me up. Nestled in her palms I reveled in the smoothness of her skin. It was like neoprene, all soft but firm at the same time. And she had her hair all tied up and twisting around itself in different spots so that she had all these little cornsilk loops sticking out like randomly planted stalks. She looked young but felt old. She was wise without words.

Without breaking stride she leaned in toward her palm and whispered to me, “You are mine and I am yours and together we will create the magic of a moment.” Pressing those bubblegum lips to the rolled emerald entryway that leads to the center of me, she exhaled a stream of fervent breath steadily expanding my body until I grew exponentially. With every inch I felt my inhibitions dwindle until my expansion breached any of my prior sizes. This was virgin territory, euphoric and excited, a frenzied state of sensation, and I was totally scared shitless.

She continued to blow, pumping the brilliance of her life into me. I could see her memories and feel her experiences; the long drive from the west coast all the way cross country with the window down screaming Rolling Stones and Pixies songs at the top of her lungs; the tattered purple arm of the dragon her dad won her at the state fair that she still keeps in her backpack at all times; the dried up plant on the windowsill she still waters despite its months of brown because she wants to believe it will live again. Within this brief instance I knew her and knew that she knew me. And as I inflated beyond the threshold of ever returning, I knew whatever happened next didn’t matter. I trusted this moment. I trusted her to take me to a place worth changing for.

The sound of my explosion reverberated off the brick facade, bouncing its way back and forth across and down the street like the twenty-five cent super bouncing balls those same saucer sled kids threw as hard as they could just to see how far down the block they would land before getting lost in the sea of cityscape. But destruction didn’t hurt. It was liberation. The caterpillar turned butterfly, only I was just pieces. As physically broken as my body was I felt whole for the first time.

Gathering my fragmented pieces she fit me easily into the breast pocket of her baby-eye blue wind breaker, and gliding down the sidewalk I was swallowed by the vibrations of her humming You Can't Always Get What You Want like the world might very well have been created just for her. And I wouldn't doubt if it had. I know mine was.

sabotaged synapses

the onset of the spring to summer has brought with it aches of the brain; pinched throat singing wordless words; disorientation; and a pile of stress like golfballs at a driving range. i am a target. for what i do not know. i am a target for my self to strike out against in defiance of me. i am a delusion of my ego. i am a wilting pedal of flower in a sickly dry vase. i am melodrama incarnate. oh poor me. this tea in this cup that you can not see i will describe for you: it is supposed to ease tension (according to the box) and just that thought makes me tense...the tea is of a rusty brown nature...the cup is of a wooden brown nature...i am of a brown nature. maybe my eyes will cross soon. i do not know for sure...

when my bicycles engine sputtered out...

...i rode at fever pace, fast like a virus, "quick like a bunny", peddling my words like wares, fast, through weaved wet noodle electric brain, remnants of deep-like discussions of the accuracy of captured instances in haiku, or the quality of fictious people at toll-booths, and it dawned on me, while awaiting the signal overlooking the intersection, that for a moment i thought my bicycle was vibrating as if it had an engine, and that it had just sputtered its last breath, but then i realized bicycles have no engines per se' (mechanical ones anyway, or at least this particular model does not). Then i thought of the chance that maybe it was telling me i had sputtered, like me being the force which enacted the propelling of its gears and such was maybe not sufficent enough for it and it required more gusto, or perhaps it wanted an owner with more automatically mechanical qualities. This I can not so sufficiently provide, however i did also realize my predictability in that instance because i was on my way home directly after school.