Dark Street

A dark avenue of thought in noir lighting is where my mind wanders,

Quickly past the pawnshop where I sold all my dreams.

I don't wave as I pass, cannot look in those dirty windows.

Afraid that one of them will see me and tell the others.

I shouldn't have worried; they saw me anyway.

I hurry by, 

Their fists bang on bullet proof glass; muffled pleas and wailing, echo, echo, echo.

My cigarette stays unlit in my hand beneath a flickering streetlight.

I catch my breath across from that diner.

Nostalgia crawls under my skin as I watch myself laugh and laugh inside.

That corner booth with endless coffee, the owner's tired frown, the careless disregard for time

The world being ours, ours, ours.

I almost go in.

I don't.

My cigarette lights with a breath of sharp bitterness, a party trick well learned.

When did it get so dark on this street?

Shadows cast by drifting doubts, heavy with rain, creep along the sidewalk.

I make it to the intersection, still closed for repair.

Equipment stationed like sentinels, 

Imposing but impotent and stuck with rust.

I inhale the sweet burning smoke,  

Angry red warmth lights the moody caution tape and road cones and the 'DO NOT ENTER' sign. 

I can feel my fingertips again; not yet

Not yet

Not yet having faded to a ghost in these dark streets.

Stream Of Thought

  I sit like a gremlin.

Or someone with 'atypical sexual preferences' -?

(Its a joke somewhere. But they aren't wrong, I guess.)

I have a big heart, you know.

But it's a little blinded by the light.

I wear a pair of birds around my neck in gold and enamel and glossy paint on a purple ribbon.

People compliment it.

I told someone that it represents my loves and they asked how old my kids were and I shook my head and we laughed and while I glowed they glowered and that was that.

I dress like a man sometimes and am proud of how I look. 

But I do enjoy a frilly skirt.

Does it matter? Outside is outside. 

That oppressive force known as 'everyone else' can't help but push and pull me around, but thats what skin is for.

It keeps outside out.

And no one can touch what's inside unless I take it out to show them.

Right now, I have my palm open to feed the birds.

Feeling what you need to feel is not wrong. Sharing it shouldn't be taboo. Loving strongly isn't 'sinning' and fuck you, it hasn't been "just the internet" for twenty years. 

We are a race of words. 

My heart is a little blinded by the light, yes, but it knows where it's going. Stunned by brilliance, acceptance, compassion, imagination, and following birdsong.

So Imma keep sitting like a gremlin.