standing in the line of thought

                                                                                                                                                                          
if judgments were visible we would flee our rooms for fear of fire, resting a palm or a cheek against the wall, feeling for heat before falling to the floor, so we can breathe just below where the hatred floats, humbled away on hands & knees. 

burn your notebooks and listen to the rest of your body.

cities are sets where we stage our dreams and nightmares. most of us too poor or weighed down with debt. what we owe submerges us, keeps us flailing in slow motion beneath the waves. 

how can you ever be anyone else and never leave?

i know what i am a few incidents away from losing, but wasn't i always a few incidents away from gaining something as well? how often are you just a few incidents away from love?

catastrophe forces us to choose all over again, to organize what's alive. faced with such cliffs, we always exclaim, "what have i done!" instead of asking, "what have i chosen?"

i feel like a bus driver who always drives the same route.

versions of ourselves, both newer & worn too well, breaking & already broken, pass like a melody played on an instrument you do not touch, through rooms of old wood, in a house that survives from a previous era of the place you live and falsely feel yourself at home in. 

standing in the line of thought
it's not enough to drop what you have
you must untie the knot

images from http://www.placehacking.co.uk/tag/caves/

there will be no purple rain

standing in line at the plaid, tall dough boy who i usually see behind the cash register is headed out the door, skateboard slung over his shoulder, nods as he walks by, we exchange muttered dudes. the fluorescent light is bright, the linoleum floor is white. i recognize the song. 

I never meant to cause you any sorrow. 

I never meant to cause you any pain. 

I only wanna one time see you laughing. 

I only wanna to hear you... 

inside, i start to sing along. usually the wait is interminable, a mockery of the slogan: 

GET IN

GET IT

GET GOING

but tonite i have a song i haven't heard in ages. but just as i start to groove, the cashier reaches over and skips the track. this is the plaid, so all hopes & dreams must die. suddenly, a guy who had just checked out and was walking away stops, turns & juts his face into the middle of the transaction. 

you turning off purple rain?

the cashier is surprised. he obviously hasn't fully considered the consequences of that decision. 

uh, yeah he stammers, confused. 

the man just stands there, shaking his head. he is middle-aged like me but wears his years worse. his hair & beard are thoroughly salted. his face is a slab of pink, tenderized meat. 

you turning off purple rain?

he says it again, his tone lands somewhere in between a question & an emphatic statement of disbelief. he turns and skulks out the door, yet another thing a working man can't have. 

and the cashier, who never meant to cause him any sorrow, who never meant to cause him any pain, moves on. 

next transaction,

next song.