Short Story: WILBUR

I don't know if it's just me yeah I'm pretty sure it's just me, that has these vague thoughts, but not just once, on multiple occasions, and I don't think they are strange at all while I think them, or even after, but sometimes I might just say it out loud and then, then I realize that's not what other people think, ever. Like I was sitting next to this stranger on the muni the other day, older gentleman, attractive, but nothing special. I wasn't physically attracted to him or anything of that sort, but strangely I was oddly enough think about him a few hours later, I kinda missed him. A man with beautiful bone structure, not my type at all though, white v-neck and a black double breasted jacket. I've seen him around, to be honest, I lied, I know him but not very well. I've had a few acquaintances with him. He's a nice guy, an intellectual type, but not at all, he's an asshole really, but the good kind, not the bad kind. I sometimes like to plan his day out and hypothesize what he is doing sequentially. I know it's obscure, I use that word a lot, but its very, very vague. I think he drunks a cup of hot tea in the morning, he seem like he would sleep with his sock on, yeah so his socks are on, and he get a cup of tea, a flavored green tea, I presume, then he sits and reads the newspaper, the section on the economy first, but then he lances over the comic section too, just when no one's looking, not that he cares what people think of him, or so he says. So yeah, after "glancing" (actually intensively cracking up at the morning comics, he takes care of "business" in the bathroom, you know the usual routine, whatever that maybe, I don't really want my mind wandering in that territory, I like to think I'm not that twisted, yet. He picks up his dictionary off the bookshelf, opens it, and closes his eyes, turns to page 72, of his Oxford Dictionary, from God knows when, and scrolls his finger down, it's the word of the day. He puts on the television, The Discovery Channel, Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations, as he stirs up some gourmet omelets for breakfast. He scurries it up quickly, he's a fast eater. It's 9:30 am, I just like to plan his mornings, before he leaves the house, because I don't want to think of the people he meets durning the day, and especially not the night, I'd rather like to day dream abut the time he spends in solitude. Hopefully he spends his nigh alone, reading Whitman or Thoreau or Keroac. Maybe he reads wikipedia, some random facts. I would like that. Yeah, I would really, really like that. 

Poetry: That Bitch

"Heel toe, heel toe"
The bitch wails from across the narrow hallway 
She digs her five inch nails, into the heel of my hooves as she creeps up behind me 
She has obscure notion that I'm putting on a facade of a burden drunken teenager
She places a thick novel on the roof of my hair engrossed skull 
"Back erect young lady!" she demands
Impolitely, of course 
I tap the tips of my fingers on my upper thigh 
As I hear the melody of the leaking ceiling from the rain pounding onto the kitchen sink from the moldy deteriorated fixtures
"Stop your perpetual mind numbing behavior" that bitch yells at me again 
Like the German guard, protecting the flame engulfed chamber, she stands ridgely 
With her mind clouded with judgment conceived from aesthetic appearance 
Dark skin
Hair of ashes
Powder stained gums
Blood varnished lips
Constantly pondering my existence 
It's not vital for her to enrich her soul, so why must she pry? 
Palms bruised with the whip of a ruler, like horizontal strips that take over my fist 
Decorated with gold rings in hopes of concealing the pain, 
But the gold doesn't permit me from quenching my thirst of the acceptance of this woman, this guard, with her ruler of steel, her infinite amount of pages novel, and an endless amount of discretion.

Poetry: Baritone Saxophone

The wooden floors of the quaint cafe tremble 

As the baritone saxophone is being delicately rendered 

We write in our times of distress 

But as the violin whispers in the ambience 

As the rain plunks onto the pavement 

And as the strange bald middle aged man, without a wrinkle on his forehead

Drops a needle on each key of his piano 

As I glance at the faces on the relatively unfamiliar people 

Whom I feel rather connected with to 

Not a word of hatred is on the tip of this ink stained page 

The chronic circumstances that I find intolerable 

The obnoxious couple in the corner being grotesquely in considerate of the world around them 

The rude elder gentleman, with the thick mustache going about ignorantly glaring at me 

The young women constantly gabbing, chattering away

Doesn't even seem to perplex me, 

The baritone saxophone 

The violin 

A drop of the needle on the keyboard 

The attractive mans deep soulful voice and vaguely identifiable sounds like an accordian 

Harmonize this  dim lighted room 

And motivate me to initiate a step into the brightly lighted room 

Across the poorly paved street. 

Creative Write-up: Abnormal Love

The other day a somewhat of a stranger used the term abnormal in describing me. So you ask, why exactly did this stranger do that? He was basing my personality affliction on the term love and how I never have loved. It's so strange that how he based one sure fire proposition and placed it into a box of normality. How can we be so sure that loving is normal? Is it really a pure tangibility or is it a manifested feeling? Holy shit, it's driving me crazy! This whole love concept, it's so fucking obscure. I mean yeah, I am still young, but why does it kind of make me feel inhuman not to have emotions that most people my age have had. 

A movie I watched, just tonight actually, Closer, made me realize things about myself, not to be self-absorbed, but it was really made me come to the perfect conclusion to sum up my thoughts on love. We go through life loving, loving, loving this one person that we marry, but after  years of sex and hatred, do we really know this person? Is it really who we think it is? Do we know their name? Do we really know who they really are?  

"It's a lie. It's a bunch of sad strangers photographed beautifully and... all the glittering assholes who appreciate art say it's beautiful 'cause that's what they want to see. But the people in the photos are sad and alone, But the pictures make the world seem beautiful, so... the exhibition is reassuring which makes it a lie and everyone loves a big fat lie," says the character Alice in the movie. Which I believe is a metaphor for the photography to symbolize what love is, love is just a facade we use to portray beauty, but it is a lie.  We put on our make up in the morning and look beautiful and some stranger on the street falls in love with you, because of your beauty, but the real beauty is behind the picture that they will never see, because it is camouflaged the glitter that we sprinkle on, which make everything a "big fat lie." So the gospel comes to an end, with the crucial statement saying; love is a lie.