Humane nature

Big glass windows don't get you very far..the view's great but those clouds will catch up with us, someday, and I'll be damned if I let myself get cotton candy choked to death.

Disgusting

The world's just keeping up with the movies
(or trying to, and failing miserably)

Stuff a beep down your engine

Nobody pays close enough attention to the road, anymore. And no, I'm not talking about all the reckless driving car crashing traffic creating madness in Manila. And no, I'm not the least bit interested in complaining about the traffic created in Manila (bet you've never heard that before) I sunk into my thoughts, at around 6:43 last night, and nobody figured it was a nice little escape, other than the overgrown weeds on the other side of the windowshield.

Nobody pays close enough attention to the curve of the highways, or the way the night is hardly black (making all those "black as the night sky" poetry nothing more than a bunch of pretty words), it's a velvety sort of navy blue..with a little bit of grey, for fuzz; the kind of fuzz you get on your televisions when the signal refuses to give way for Oprah's Favorite Things. It's a kind of color that nobody's coined a phrase, to..just because nobody's found a way to manufacture it into a Crayola box.

Sometimes I think that I can dematerialize through the dashboard, and find a way to grab a piece of that fuzzy blue, using a streetlight for a springboard. Other times, I like to think that we'd all roll our windows down and talk about that new mall strip or coffee place down by the river, for a while, if the roads weren't so wide and the hours weren't so taxing.

Dots I could never dash

You know what I miss? Conversations that don't make sense..hour-long conversations that don't make sense. Hour-long conversations that don't have to make sense to anybody else, simply because they've got splashes of our little world in pink, green and red red red light red, all over the place..(but mostly because we don't want them to.) Nothing in the romantic sense. Nothing in any sense whatsoever. So perhaps I miss being sugarhigh and babbling about the kiss the wind refused to give, or the way the third chime of the clock feels like a spoonful of cinnamon freefalling into your gut. I don't see what's keeping me from reaching into that ol' cookie jar..aside from that understandably common teenage drive to look anorexic, of course. I don't even like stick-skinny girls; I just have an odd thing for bones portruding in the right place..elbows, hip bones, wrists, ankles..to a certain extent. Don't expect me to love you if I can break you in half.

Freelance suits and ties

If I were to create a little safe place where nothing made sense, and stayed that way (for my own sake), I think I'd name it a cross between Italy and Prague, with a French twist..like the kinds I can't get my hair to stay in. Something that'd be mispronounced too often to be considered plain, like Alia de Montague (such a pretty word to be sick of nowadays). And if I were lucky (or self-absorbed) enough, perhaps I'd name the capital one of the many names I'd imagined myself to be called. I'd stay there, and I'd write about all the things that I never could find in a name, or a fleeting moment, or the makeup those superficial bimbos put on themselves to look a little bit like the enchantress in that gay bar. Then again, I'd much rather not. I'd much rather stay there and feel like the fortieth man on the moon -ignored by old school book authors, but still somewhere closer to Home, watching the Earth fly by.

Maybe there..here..wherever the thin line between there and here is, I'd let loose the tiny coffee beans and ice cream dreams in this restless little do-nothing head of mine; because, then, everything would feel like nothing but a hideaway under a silk-lined blanket on another rainy night..and not roots and radicals and who knows (I don't) what else.