Monday, July 20, 2009
loud as hope
the sun looms like a threat. the pavement hums. A boy and girl riding bicycles. the boy is me, peddling toward an ice-cream truck with a pocket full of change. silver half dollars - birthday money. the girl pumps her skinny legs. bright pink streamers fall like a horses mane from her handlebar grips. She smiles her shiny teeth at me and i already imagine her unwrapping a red white and blue rocket pop. i can taste it. i can feel it melting sticky down our fingers. we will compare red tongues and blue lips.
her hair sticks to her face like little black snakes. sweat on the back of my neck makes my skin prickly. there is a dull moan of ice cream truck motor. a slightly perverted and out of tune Pop Goes the Weasel fights it's way to play through the thick hot air.
I don't remember the car or her yelling for me to watch out or stop or why aren't you stopping?. they warn you, there are warning signs. but, i never stop. I won't stop. I can't stop. little cartoon hearts flutter out of my chest when i wasn't looking. I never saw the car.
the head over heel feeling and the glimpse of sunlight and braids. sunshine and braids. i tumble for what seems like a life time. everything is slow motion. the change falling from my pocket hitting the asphalt and rolling with the grace only money can find. my bike over there, me over here. lying on my back more serene than Buddha on xanax.
people come from out of their houses i think. the girl runs over to me. she is smiles and sunshine. she is braids and glasses. are you dead? she asks. are you over the rainbow? she asks. say hi to the tin man, say hi to the scarecrow. she leans into my face and kisses me. i guess maybe i had died. but i remember getting up and shaking myself off. someone telling me i should look where im going next time, to be more careful then handing me change and dollar bills. "for your bike"
maybe, i thought. maybe i did die. maybe everything after that and since and now - is a dream.
the girl, she was glad i was okay. that i wasn't dead. she stuck out a bright red tongue and declared herself the winner.
It's resistance failing and the words feel nice inside my head. your name feels nice inside my head. I have yet to kick the habit of you. So, could you ever come slip back under me? If you ever made it easy. I would. I know you're there. I haven't killed the habit and this has become my only fix. my love is a ghost that fits my skin. there are remnants still in my bloodstream. it's enough and never enough.