and there were times when he wanted to be angry to yell listen up and shut up, but nothing was inspiring enough. a lethargy of energy and an emptiness inside kept him from shouting anything or saying nothing. Let's small talk and coddle, let's remark on the, and prattle about the, and not listen to each other as we pass the time away. the best way to suffer is not in silence but by sharing the unnecessary. let's face it our attention spans were too short for each other don't you think? I mean what's the maximum amount of time that you can listen to me carry on about my miserable years serving food and driving people to movie stars' homes? If you can hang in there with me, if you can come with me, if you can talk back to me then I give you more credit than I'm worth.

Hey listen let's get into this car and kept driving until we run out of things to talk about, I'll drop you off at the corner. Better yet let's fill this balloon with the hot air of our heads and float away. because it's so easy to look pretty and smile you just have to be hard on yourself all the time. That's it, just be hard on yourself all the time

so it was that we walked hand and hand through poppy fields full of purple. and it wasn't the desert that we thought that it would be, no it was simply a field. simply a small hut that we had left behind early in the morning not wanting to be caught, and so we skipped high and so we ran slow, and so we held hands as we brushed past the flowers that never seemed to refuse to bloom. and without looking back we had fun, and without out a care we shook our heads from side to side, and the mist, the dust, it all blended in our nostrils as one. and my right hip started to hurt from all the joy. tired hands in danger of head falling to sleep. but we wanted to and we wished to and we wouldn't let our selves rest for more than a day. And when it came down to me it was too much to take, because they were Nazis.,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

sabado y domingo

The idols were stacked up outside the door. Haphazardly like Russian Nesting dolls. The two men, old enough to remember when the idols were new, sat at the bare table on simple chairs turned towards the open door, their backs hunched under their matching black overcoats, their sparse gray hair barely supporting the hats on their heads.
Outside the door, one of them thought, it's nice eventhough the weather is gray and old, there have been worse days when the alley way was covered in rain, when the sun was so hot it twice backed the bricks holding back the weight of the earth that framed the pathway to the coast.
I can hear it more than I can see it, always the waves continue to crash, but it takes a clear day to see over the hill at the end of the row and make out the seafoam spray.
The floor was swept clean by the constant breeze, the only light peered through the door and it lost all energy after dimly lighting the table.
I hate these bugs that gather about the door and won't come in any closer. Spain has never been the same, never regained what it was that we lost. Now there's just the dry heat or the overcast days, the music that never stops, and the ocean that never sleeps.
The fought against the heat in their black clothes their longsleeves and ties, their hats that seemed to heat their heads and cook their brains that never saw the light of the sun. They watched the world go by through an open slit forever never turning to face each other even thought their laments were the same.
A Tuesday was an infinity, the next week an infinity-plus-one. How many had they sat through? And how many more would come before they reached the bottom of the void?

Portable Creativity

I hope hat this is the start of a new era in creativity when there's no excuse, no special place to go, no cell to cloister away in in order to create. Creating on the go, creating in space, creating when the need to create comes to me. It is when it is best in the moment in the time of inspiration in the not caring of the other people thinking. This is when it comes out and pours out and leaves words on an empty space. Creating in the any-place and not needing to go to my space. The universe doesn't end, didn't start in a place fit for it and made for it and holding it in. This feels good, it feels sustained and able to be done.

when we were artists.

remember when we were unhappy and able to create to make and produce without stopping and wondering where was the source of our outpouring?
no, I don't have any more ideas, no more thoughts run through my arms and fall like raindrops on the keyboard keys.
but didn't you just this morning see a flock of white birds circling like tornados and think to your self 'white flashing bellies in the morning sun'?
yes, but I also saw black birds that didn't stop, that flew in a straight line behind the horizon line trees.
and that was it?
yes, that was it and I went to work with a desire but without the means.
you sound like you're waiting.
yes.
for what, for what do you think will make you go, make you run afoul of language and want to jump at the mountain of being misunderstood or not understood at all?
I don't know, but I do know that it will never come, there will never be a push-from-outside, a contingent change of course, for how can a creator not be responsible for creation, how can I be the source of my creations if I do not choose to create? So why is it that I so frequently do-not, and instead not-think, not-do, wait-long?

both went their separate ways although it was hard to tell who had said the one thing and who had said the other for they were both wearing the same drab clothes fit for walking in the sort of absent minded weather both men were having. did one stop at a store on the way home to buy something to eat, for he now carried a small white bag while the other walked straight only stopping once to look out over the tall retaining walls in an attempt to view the sea through the hard fog? Once home did one have coffee while the other sat across the table staring dourly either at the other's face or the beaten wooden table top the only thing visible in the singular lighted basement room whose basement walls held in the chill and damp that they pushed the upper floors above?

interrupted.

The still-picture photograph of someone’s greatest moment better than his left him empty. The real-colored fullness of their smiling faces, the baby’s captured laughter, or the dark sunglasses in front of a mountain range made him feel black and white on the inside. Flipping through the stacks of images, trying to hold on with fingers numbed from the sidewalk wind that pushed summer out with the light, he caught corners of people’s eyes, the flash of a red balloon, a happy dog and a baseball game. Warmth in his hands, death on his eyes. I think too slowly or thought too late, never got inside the lives they live. Three kids ran down the broken concrete, one nearly brushed him with his backpack that bounced back and forth to hard footfalls. He watched them run down the street until they ran past a gray building that drew his eyes to the dusty clouds in the purple red sky. Another one of life’s snags jerking him away from the memories in his lap.