Tuesday, January 25, 2011

$2 tuesdays

Hand and hand is a good place. $2 burgers, a glass of water and some good company. Weather sports and news tucked in high ceilings and simple walls give way to simple floors. Dimly lit, the bar arcs its back amongst the mellow clientele. The waitresses are nice and the music plays soft to accommodate the light rain outside. I never miss a Tuesday.

Friday, January 21, 2011

Crowded dreams.

You ever meet people in your dreams. Not familiar faces, not people you know. Strangers. Complete and utter strangers. Beautiful, comfortable and mysterious they play their roles without an ounce of awkward. They just fit. Who the hell are those people? Souls I might meet in the future? Friends I might laugh with in the years to come. A girl I might love. If so where are they now? Are they dreaming of me? We dance in our destinies waiting for an introduction. I shook your hand when I slept. I felt your life in my head. I knew you were there.

I met a girl in my dreams once. She had dark hair that rolled like hills from a car window. Wavy and deep, brown eyes, red lips to match her dress. She was on fire. The foreground was a dance floor made of oak the distance was a heavy shade of green. We danced for a song, maybe more. Time is tough to read when you’re asleep. I didn’t know her long, but my sheets were twisted and I woke up on the other side of my bed. A ghost. A spirit that flat out flowed. I honestly believe that girl is out there. I believe she has this same memory.

Its almost like you flip your switch and plug into a dream roulette. A network of relentless minds in restful bodies. We slumber hard as luck throws us together in a mash of confusion and fickle memories. We enjoy the company, smile in our ignorance and float. Dark nights glow with age and bloom into dawn and we bid our farewells. Will we meet again? Maybe. Do I have any idea who you are? No. Do it want to do it again? Always.

I sleep almost everyday, and I never wake up dead. I must be doin some livin’ somewhere in between consciousness. I wonder what I’m like with my eyes closed.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011


I’m sick of writing about the snow. Crisp whites, frozen tires and bloodless hands. A deserts life right now.

The wide open empty. The lizards the sand the cracks in the mud and the rainless corpse of earth. The slim yet indignant cacti and the humble sun just burning hard pumping rays into everything but shadow. The quiet, the creaky wind and maybe some sweat. The smell of nothing but the sweet stench of dust. A campsite. A fire, a relentless night. Naked stars, cloudless and bright. A suns slumber.

Hills, no, mountains of clay red, beige and smooth. Eager roots, harsh realities, and a humble sense of survival. The heat. Strong, earnest and consistent, it echoes the deserts name. Eyes closed, legs tired, water lost. The dry smack of your lips, a week old beard and an empty cup. I’d have a backpack soaked in salt. My boots would be brown and my pants would be dirty. My shirt would stink and I would drip. Room for a smile nonetheless.
With my fair skin, I’d get tatted red. Aloe like ice. I’d walk home.

Southern trails

I want to see the south so bad. Here I am in the deep depths of an Atlantan winter and my mind wanders across a map. Never been south of Virginia and I hear the gravy’s sweet. Cornbread, grits and some blues I want to taste the flavors. New Orleans gumbo with a jazz purée, Nashville biscuits with served with a country twang and a Charleston two step, alamode. Why the fuck not? I’m here, I’ve never seen it, and from my apartment the breeze smells pretty nice. Crack out the RandMcNally, I’m goin’ livin!

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

How my head works before I fall asleep

My fingers are too tired to write this.

I feel good about the future.

It looks pretty big.

I wish I could play the piano.

Blues piano.

Green eggs and ham.

The wild wild open.

Cactus needles with a desert sunset.

Soft shoes.

Deep sleep.

Beautiful dreams.

Shaken bones.


What if a man had a magical camera? I’m talking about a genetic tweak in its workings that is by all means possible, but altogether unexpected. It literally sees the world a different way. A man might lose his mind over a find like that.

I hitchhiked from the ski hill today. Met a nice man and we talked about stunt devils.

Tomorrow night I’ll be sleeping in Atlanta.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Lift tickets die.

My boots hurt my feet, my hands are cold in my gloves and my cheeks burn a winters red. My ass, damp in its pants, freezes slow on the jerky yet scenic chairlift. The clock reads 3:30 and my legs agree, the day is done.

The last run should always been the longest. Your socks should feel the snow and your smile should flap in the wind. The sun slows to a smolder as you give a nod to the operator at the top of paradise. The crowds have dwindled and he wonders when he too can get a cup of something hot. On a clear afternoon you can see the whole valley hibernating. Trees naked, slopes hidden, and gusts of powder sprinkling the unsuspecting walls. Its beautiful in Montana, especially at 3:33.

I strap up and tighten my grip on a game plan. Las time down I found some fresh stuff stuck in between a log and a forest with long arms. Tracks trail my board and gravity goes to work. Lean on my calves, press on my thighs I slap the mounds of soft with the backside of my line. I’m going to see if its still there. There is a tight left turn that got the better of me earlier. Its dangling pine needles slapped my arm and gave warning of worse if I dare return. Its just a fucking tree.

I dodge and indulge and find my basket of clean snow. Pure, lazy, and mine. I turn hard and often until it turns to chop. I cruise the groomers, build up speed and ignore the slow signs. My face refrigerates as the lodge comes into view. Lackluster skis and poles outline the deck and the smoke billows smooth from its spout. I thank my knees and loosen my boots. Beers are sweetest at the bottom of ski days.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Brooklyn snow

When it snows in New York, street lights drop brown shadows and flicker like short wicked candles. A pocket of chaos in a sea of black, they illuminate a storm all their own. Atmospheres divided by the blank spaces of night, dark street corners, and empty delis. Brownstone steps, dressed in white, see no stars and feel no feet. We watch from windows caked in fog and breathe in sighs. My morning flight is cancelled.