Sometimes he felt as if his personal movement...

Sometimes he felt as if his personal movement was to be undermined by fate, that those strings that could possibly hold the universe together not only touch upon everything, but that the movements of celestial bodies acted like a system of pulleys, twisting and sharing the load, the end effect being that he was made to move one way or another, was predetermined to scratch his head there, or check his heartbeat for palpitations, something he had picked up in a frenzy of genetic paranoia after learning that his family had a proclivity for heart disease. A universal machine, one that was formed by the natural laws, that no one could modify without disassembling the entire network, massive and perpetual and powered by some unknown or unproven galactic entity, like anti-matter, and that this machine’s consumption of it could tell us why, despite all of our efforts, we find ourselves unable to detect it. And in spite of its intangibility, every habit we made for ourselves was just another string that happened to be pulled.
That was just the reason why he found himself buried within rows of books at this hour, attempting not to eavesdrop on the inane banter of a nearby table, but failing miserably, mostly because they were making it so easy for him to loathe their easy superficiality, their apparent lack of concern for the fact that he possibly just developed the true theory of the structure of the universe. They couldn’t know, he didn’t tell them, but he felt that for some reason they were required to know. Sometimes he felt that he had earned the right to be noticed for his ideas, even if he never had the courage to declare them. He was aware of his own absurdity.

He moved with two, flashers flashing, into the park......

He moved with two, flashers flashing, into the park, as they streamed out of the bar, 
rested upon a bench three in a row, and they stood for friends or cabs or diveed out 
subway tokens, the pipe embered and sputtered, the girl in prison clothes looked for the 
one who asked to join her in coffee, the boy who sat thought nothing of her or her 
prison stripes, while pulling at her skirt so nervously, or her glasses or squarish 
tattoos, blinking and looking from side to side, just how coffee wasn't such a 
great idea after all, searching for the boy who asked her to coffee, especially 
because he couldn't stand the taste of coffee. 

I inhaled an apricot, I annoyed the...

I inhaled an apricot, I annoyed the subway. Behind the gate rests an empty elevator shaft. Old English, but not Anglo-Saxon. Merlot: don't smash the new glasses.

I saw there was a ledge out your window. I sat myself upon a ledge, a window one, some two stories high, with a witch's hat and a full bladder, emptied with a gravatational trajectory. I hollered at passers, who would toss me cigarettes and lights for charity and entertainment, and kick bicycles of my choosing. Mount Olympus. I couldnt' stop swinging my feet.

Then back to remember the evening in sound, soul crashers melting into my bed. Give a bear a spear. Bouncing sawtooth wavefoms. This is what perpetual motion sounds like. Don't eye me when there's a guy around.

Iditarod

Some say I made it out the best way, but others said I did it all wrong, iditarod.

Enamel Id

I make it out, hot heavy breath tingling with the mild burn of garlic, to cough and smell it quickly, no one's watching, slip in the gum. Offer it others. Stuffing fists in pockets, I heat my gummed heels with brisk pacing towards the windowless cell to bloom a shrine in fewer hours. He's going to be the Joseph in her football fantasy, she's looking fine in her bra and panties, I laugh and lean forward too much and block my friend's eyes.

We go to a pilot's house, and I lose it. The metro riders think I'm an idiot, a forty something, presumably female who looks like she made herself with a flock of seagulls. Try to climb it, the escalator's so slippery, the chasing man in the vest is fast but we're faster.

Find it again at the Chinese restaurant as a mixture from two bottles we smuggled in, spill one, pour another, break a glass, don't care. It runs all hot in my throat. I find her from yesterday, her pants remind me of my eyes, her boots of dress up. We could make it, we probably could, but I'm not concerned.

Let's blow it! There's another place to go. The man is outside, his eye is black and blue and beautiful. I ask him how, he swears he's been jumped. I give him my drink, gin and tonic is his favorite too. They call me after, and my glass meets the sidewalk in shimmering splinters. The metro disagrees again. I weave myself upwards through the telephone booth, weave down. board, disembark. I scare some away cause I'm punching the newspapers, the spitting man wants no charity, even Samaritan.

The last one's almost a blur, but that's where you come in wrapped in almost abhorrent cotton, weaved in stripes. I try to ruin your night. I bite and snarl and froth and snap and yell and bellow. You take it and heavy. There's no reason and I don't need one. don't need one and that's the only one.

Back in the cell, the boys go to bed, somehow my shoes are dirty. we bite and snarl and froth and snap and yell and bellow and you say my name like I'm amnesic and forge black holes on my neck, scratch constellations on my spine. I'm not nearly as empty as the space you make me, but to walk you home remains an impossibility.