Feeding The Habit

"I will go in this Way, Oh but I will find my own way out." -Dave Matthews

Sunday, March 27, 2005

Sunday Thoughts

We lay down every night, whether it be
to the sound of bugs
or the hum of an AC outside the window.

It's nice to rest, to dream of heroics
and soft songs. It's nice
to know, every morning, we can rise again.

Monday, March 21, 2005

Let me take you down, 'cause I'm going...

She walked into the store. She kept the purse gripped close and let her eyes scan across the aisles. She decided on aisle four, since it was as good as any, and headed towards it. On an impulse, she turned down aisle three instead. She stuck out her hand to deftly grab a snickers bar and dragged a finger across the box holding them. It cut in deep. A paper cut, just what I needed, she thought, then wondered if it ought to be called a cardboard cut instead. It didn’t matter though, she was at the end of the aisle and had to turn left. Any other day that snickers bar would have been hers.

She walked past the coolers with bottles of pop until they faded away into small gadgets; scissors and such. To the left the aisles were running now lengthwise along with her course. They were running towards the pharmacy and it sure would be nice to have some of those pills. But that would have to wait. It was time to turn right, to go through the double doors that were usually locked but now were open. It was the storage room she was in now. It was dark like he had said, little cracks of light sneaking in through the sides and bottom of the loading bay garage door. He was in the back right corner, also like he had said.

“You got it?” he asked.

“Yah, It’s here,” she said, and began digging through her purse. She pushed past the tubes of red lipstick and mascara and put her fingers around the cold butt of it. She pulled the gun out and extended it towards him, tried to look into his eyes, but found them fixed on the gun in her hands.

My fingerprints are probably still gonna be on it, she thought. Even if they aren’t, they’ll trace it to the guy that sold it to the pawn shop and then to the sixteen year old boy that bought it from the pawn shop that gave it to me.

The first two will be easy, they’ve got nothing to loose. The only hope will be with the boy. But the boy will talk, people always talk. We know you bought this gun with a fake ID, they’ll tell him. Do you know how long we can put you away just for that? Not to mention it somehow killed someone and you’re the last person we know that had it. Now all you gotta do is tell us who you gave it too. And then he’ll tell them, it’s really that easy. That will be the end of it.

He took the gun from her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Don't worry baby, it’s gonna be alright,” he tells her.

But all she can hear are the speakers back through those double doors. They’re playing Strawberry Fields. She remembers an interview she watched once when John Lennon was talking about what that meant. “Strawberry Fields,” John said, “It’s that place, that place you want to be. It could be anywhere. All you gotta do is just… go there.”

At last she looked up into his eyes. “I won’t talk,” she said.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

Dropping the Ball

I'd write the world
if I had the chance
and ask how it was going.

Just to see
really, if she were paying attention,
if the storms
or the big waves
hard over us

really meant anything at all.
I think sometimes it's just a dream
she's having or a small bit
slightly hinting of negligence.

Woudn't it be strange to wake up
one day in the cold heat
of the morning and
stark naked realize: like that moldy cup,

the one there on the coffee table,
you've been forgotten along with us all?

Sunday, March 06, 2005

Sunday Thoughts

Close your eyes. What
do you see? Is it
a quiet black,
or is it all that rage
that lives there inside you? I
took a drink of water once,
and for what it was worth,
found myself thirsty
some few hours later.