shallowdeep

reflections

streetlights split midnight sky.  peer into mirror.  nothing.  review my newest spanish phrase, 'outta my way, fucker.'  smile.  sounds better in spanish.  most  things do. 

propelled by appetites unquenched.  maneuver, merge, accelerate, 5th gear.  sunroof open, windows down.  spanish music and static give way to break beat.

tonight a girl wore grey under black.  well done, a classic combination. 

i found myself distracted.  distance burns the palate like carmelized sugar on skin, only hotter.  sugar clings like napalm.  searing.  a good brulee torch fires over 2500 degrees.  mostly a blur, looking back to the rear view now. 

a sea of cocaine. all night binges lasting days into weeks, only chemically induced sleep interlaced at points of resistance.  steady downward dive. haven't touched the stuff in 10 years.

like to think i was noble in some deranged way.  like cary grant to ingrid bergman in 'notorious.' you know, push away the one you love most, to prevent them from being a part of a deranged little world.  maybe i was just an asshole.  honestly i don't remember.

only thing i recall is waking up one morning at her apartment.  overnight, it snowed.  and snowed.  and snowed.  by morning, my car and everything else was buried in 3 feet of powder.  the most peace i can remember.  better than the stuff called 'the scorpion' we scored down in mexico.  it was the best snow ever.  only hope it's cool enough to ease that burning feeling now.

posted by: shallowdeep at 07/30/06 03:54 | link | comments (3) |

dead end

a most sincere hope is that friends find happiness.  youth's greatest folly is the failure to appreciate a good woman.  broken hearts send bills, even if they take years to arrive.  interest accrues, and each youthful spontaneity, lucid or otherwise, presents an exponential whiplash when it finally comes.

these thoughts plague me as i drive through a barren, post midnight city.  presents and gifts and material goods tantamount to nothingness.

and yet, a good cup of coffee.  a sunset with three or more colors.  poised in the mountains, or oceanside.

there is hope.

and in the end, is that not what keeps us alive?

posted by: shallowdeep at 07/28/06 03:36 | link | comments (2) |

summer nights circle wagons 'round boiler room days.  friends arrive, fridge opens, beer removed.  fresh tomatoes to fiery salsa, lime juice drips from chips.  dragon tattoo with girl in tow, twists silently to thievery corporation 'lebanese blonde.' 

friends leave to shoot pool.  stay in, tonight.  wait for things to unfold.  a friend calls, from a mall.  a new one, not open yet.  just married.  assimilated to the world of mall sleuthing.  a future in corporate espionage.  offer gifts from amsterdam.  he mumbles nonsense about looking for a new job, marital slang for shackles buckled too tight.

friends return from pool hall, shortly.  'that place was lame,' they claim.  7 bars within a mile or two of my house, including a lesbian joint.  with so many choices, why hit a place known for jock itch, high heels and future mary kay clients?

pureed san marzano tomatoes make vodka sauce.  a kitchen breathes, alive with garlic and extra virgin olive oil.  sauce simmers, a wine bottle popped, parmesano reggiano over pasta and drunken friends become once again full.

posted by: shallowdeep at 07/27/06 11:05 | link | comments (1) |

red, the color of ambition.  dark midnight shadows replaced by fiery greens as treetops absorb dawn.

buenos aires, a few more months.  what jimmy's up to?  get that email address today. 

should've bought gold this morning, unfocused by dark locks and blue dream eyes.  ahh, but too cool a pool to swim in.   people get colder, the world warmer.  

sunroof open, windows down.  sweltering.  july sun burns as the ides of march dissipate to a steaming bread loaf southern summer.  clothing and skin become one, moss to a tree.

a floor, streamlined wood.  toasty coffee and espresso fill my nostrils.  neurons fire, reluctantly.  the rescue crew frothing a simple meter away.  a serious brunette scowls at her laptop.  she looks angry, a turn on.  order a triple latte, a pastry.  red house painters play through speakers.  quick smile of a familiar song, then, more directly, the pain.  a stapler for my heart?  no?  i bounce.

later, dinner with friends.  a sun falls hopelessly out of the southern sky.  chatter and laughter and it's all on the outside and darkness blankets.  familiar shadows and prayers for rest return.

 

posted by: shallowdeep at 07/15/06 15:52 | link | comments |

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