Geometry

All I make is all I have. 

And I'm still doing penance for all my sins. 

It's funny, this penitentiary.

It's such an easy act to play - much too believable for them to believe. 

They'd laugh and never believe any of it. 

And I never tell the story right anyhow. 

Geometry was always an inconceivable delight.

All the shapes, form the shapes. 

Add up the shapes. 

Mathematically, systematically, they should fit together right. 

But it was so easy to share the answers. 

So easy to make the math not add up right. 

Ain't that just how it goes. 

(Did I get there too predictably?)

It'd be predictable if all my skin shown all the stories.

If all my arms and back and neck had tattoo's. 

Surprises myself sometimes to find it all looks so clean. 

We all look so clean. 

Clean up so nice. Joke so good. 

Joke and tease me until I,..

Until the next idea or adventure greets me. 

And I can show the woman I once was. 

I can show what the night feels like. 

The night sky that is, just above Neverland. 

Never, never, land. 

Never get too scared and come down. 

Life, it's just changing words.

Because they feed our Art*

Kick yourself for being here again. 

Making that long walk through the city to a place that's getting too familiar -  you know exactly what drawer to pull. 

So you tug up your starched collar - checking that the cologne is still lingering  - and you mutter against the cold that "this is the last time" with her.

Then that smile that men get sweeps across half your mouth at the slightest memory - with the people and the couples passing....and the city...

__And what was that? - that - it just made the towering buildings glitter so seductively. The wet pavement swelled down to rest your feet and everything felt alright. 

How does a woman do that? The memory of the woman you approach. 

Why do these women always do that to you? - every time, every goddam time.

They're enchanting - guilty pleasures, muses, girlfriends alike -  they're beautiful things to know, to take, sighhhh, - to take in so many beautiful ways.

And they never know we planned it just that way. 

"Why do we keep doing it?" she whispered in bed to her...

"Because they feed our art" 

....and the sensation of gasping in the sweat on his neck whips across the mind in splatters of paint for an instant.

Oh, there's canvases of wreckage on all the walls - taken each time from a man that she seemed so beautiful to once.

Each time she cared for them,
each time she knawed
and clawed
and rose - she was stealing all those memories. 

She takes, 

He takes. 

And we each smile at how good we fooled 'em that time. 

While quietly, something aches that it's just not right. 

It's really just not right. 

"I've heard artists are never satisfied.." silence. Caught me. 

I'll always want a masterpiece 

now centuries past attainable.

Those old tendencies of deception linger....and those games you might try to play - well, I have them burned between my legs already. 

Forgive me.

Forgive me, 

see - my religion may be questionable. 

Cause I believe in my fleeting youth - and I believe steadfast in the Night. I touch her excitedly and off we go through the waves and the art and the great, great characters I've gotten to know...

What does yours do for you? 

And somewhere days past he finally knocks on the door - just two taps - that it takes to feel the pulse already ah-ah-ahhh off the rails. 

Deadbolt clicks before there's time. 

He doesn't hear any of his reasons anymore. 

He throws off his coat and grabs hold and - we're hurriedly, frantically, - laughing and gasping - off again...

There goes another story I shouldn't have stolen. 

Daily headphones: Rihanna's S&M

Gave up the Old Life

The sounds of "Only the Good Die Young" start up and I'm dancing barefoot with my arms in the air, knotted long hair spinning and every toe is feeling the scratchy embrace of the familiar green carpet. 

Feels so free, feels so good. 

It's just a select few of us upstairs, happier together then, before the great bunch of 100 people come pounding up the stairs from below. Happy still together then. 

It'll roar in here soon, in the haze of Lucky Strike smoke and junk ...and the sounds of heavy breathing on the dance floor, on the futon, in all the little hideaways I'd found in the two floors below over a year's time. Creaky openings of the old doors - furniture being slid up behind them as locks. 

I'll soak it up in every pour, squeezing tresses of my hair off of my sweat-filled neck...and grasping onto his skin-sticky with tequila-as we dance, and he sniffs -and twitches-and sniffs again-and whispers the lyrics into my ear with a nibble. 

I'll kiss him with her lipstick still on mine and we'll all be so happy.

Down I went so many times like that. 

Down baby, down, down, ohhh thought it felt so good. 

And now I wake sometimes in the dead of night and stare out at the city from the otherside of a kind, soft shoulder ...or just a lump of blankets ....and I remember being that woman. I wake suddenly as if I'm waking up the very morning after. Yet months and mistakes and irreparable damage to a couple hearts lies in between. 

Fell in love and gave up the old life. 

Ran away half-way across the country.

Now everyday is one farther from the last cigarette, and one more in a beautiful, cleaner city life. 

I don't know who I'm gonna be next - but tomorrow I'll get up at dawn again and chase my dreams. 

It's the funniest damn thing.