Come my way, let’s dance. This life is too fleeting to stay seated. Let’s let go of all the other stuff gravity holds down besides the trees.
This world of ours rotates too fast. I get dizzy in the crosswind.
It’s another windy day. I try to hold on but my hats fly off my head all the time. I go chasing them down in the breeze and from behind I look like a man whose always losing his head. That’s how it goes. Are you going my way? Let’s transgress our love.
Skating on this pond, the ice is thin, I think I’ll skate until I sink.
Even when I look like I’m having a good time I’m really not.
Our fingers trace the lips of our lovers, leaving our prints on their kisses. Wine makes it all go away, down into the ground where our lives combine with our ancestors’ to form the bedrock of all our mistakes. History repeats itself they say — the repeaters, that is, say.
I say, let’s start something new, let’s transform ourselves.
I write cinema. Behind the garbage bins, in the dark, I scrawl my name on the cinema walls while the audience chuckle and guffaw inside then galumph to their cars with popcorn bouncing through their intestines destined for the digestive deep, joining more corn than one stomach can imagine.
I’m writing your name on the wall like I was four years-old again, reading Clifford The Big Red Dog, watching Johnny Cash sing with Oscar the Grouch. Forming each letter slow and precise, I write all our names in cursive.
You are the summation of your thoughts. More than your wallet. Your lovers. Your career. You are the circumference, the radius, the circle you draw when your synapses shoot colors through your brain and pictures develop magically, uncontrollably; shapes result symmetrically, language flows fluidly, patterns propagate themselves like small insect colonies, consciousness is self-replicating. You are the energy you set loose when you open your mouth and express yourself, when you get up and shout.
I love when we’re talking about our lives, the places we’re from, the stupid things we’ve seen, stitching up our experiences and everything else into a lazy autobiography we know by heart. It’s simple but so moving every time: these lingering conversations that take years to complete.
The way words lure me into bean-spillage and from-the-heart-speaking you’d think I was born to play the lampshade party-goer, the class clown; but I am God’s wingman and we’re tight like a buttplug in a nun’s ass, everything you say I can deflect with my all-knowing audacity. My earthly worries dissolve with a little reminder that every day there is a sky above and earth below is a blessing and there’s nothing greater than pondering Right Now. And dancing.
This moment, Right Now.
You are as beautiful or as ugly as the words slipping through your lips. We are like waves and tides. Going up and down. I’m a surfer of your bullshit.
This trolley is bumping and shimmering and falls down these San Francisco hills with more velocity than my flesh can handle. Tingling with the Halloween cold air, the wind ripping through the carriage, my flesh is a million nerve endings on alert, a book in Braille.
I escaped from the pages of a novel you wrote while under the influence of the moon and sixteen illegal substances, showing up at your door with a semi colon dragging from my shoe.
I am Apollo — say my name three times and I’ll do a dance for you.
That’s why I love you. You do what I say.
Confetti falling from the rafters, cluttering the dance floor, we navigate through the party like bodies with sails and a steady breeze. We drift through an ocean of eyes like a pair of lonely ghosts. It’s the night before Halloween and helter skelter is in the air.
Are you going my way? Come with me, we can get all holy and transubstantiate ourselves to music.