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Icarus's blog: "Glass Salad"

created on 08/18/2019  |  http://fubar.com/glass-salad/b371517
I took her out to breakfast. Because that's my move.
Angst. Alcoholism, and hash browns.
With a lingering hint of ex-smoker, and soul survivor.
I dunno why I picked her, pretty face, and probably a terrible fucking person.
The kind that picks fights without caring if she's right or she'll win.
But She had this halo about her. A glowing ring of asshole ex's, great hair, and unharshed skin.
We talked about great movies she hadn't seen, shitty music she listens to on the way to her shitty job.
I mostly listened, drank watery scalding-hot coffee, and went to piss a couple times due to my nerves, and old-man prostate the size of a beef-steak tomato.
She smells like the kinda places you don't wind up at 4:00 on a Thursday.
She smiles like superficial secrets, a faker burying her self with a million selfies,
clammoring for air and sunlight. Yearning to be free.
I'll call her. Probably tomorrow. Even though she can't sing.


I once surrounded myself in a comfy down blanket of the foreseable future.
I would graduate, almost with honors.
So as to not give the impression of pretense, or effort.
I would burst through my desired career.
I would make love to the woman inhabiting my bed,
and leasing my heart.
We would pop out weird, artsy, brilliant children that make names for the whimsical beasts among the clouds, and speak absurd languages of their own invention.
I would seize destiny by the throat, and drink greedily at the heady froth of greatness.
Things didn't turn out exactly as planned.
Though, that statement assumes we've come to the end of that path.
The path only got rockier, more on fire.
And I was left to drag myself uphill on the bloody stumps I had cut from under me.
Of the foundation I had only imagined.
As more blessings of burden rained down.
Have you ever spent the better part of a decade
fooling someone into loving the twisted, flawed mass of nerves and dread they molded you into?
They're just words.


Impulses. Receptors firing and churning, reflecting symbols and shapes that sound out syllables, that independently mean nothing

No less obscure than sense, sanity, or direction.

Place is relative,

having is not wanting,
but suffering is the only cardinal absolute.
I spent a lifetime hiding from her.
Like her fingertips were a mystic smoke that would disappear me
to a frantic, unknown place.
I made the mistake of making eye contact with her
and she pressed the bottom of her shoe to mine.
We stayed like that unbroken
for an ineffable minute.
Swaying in a solemn two-step.
Knowing, very quietly wanting.
She pressed her body through the jagged rubber of her shoe
with a coy desperation.
And I still had a room of strangers to guffaw with some inane mundane.
My heart pounding up to my neck.
My head swimming in urgent horizons
of unknown places, I had only dared
beg to be.
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