2005-07-17 - 11:44 a.m.
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S.P. Attack WR!
Restless rhythm chased from his fingertips, feet catching similar spasms that kick from the knees pouring extensive angst towards fatherly antics. I’m watching those tiered eyes that look green and sickly, half moon lily pads sink under hazel hair. Drawing into himself, jolting, cymbals on the off beat and all I know is that I want those feet stepping on the souls of my shoes, his low step colliding with my upstep as we’re walking single file down market street bridge in the dead calm of winter. Dressed to the nines in frozen red scarves and winded mittens. I want those knees bucking in surprise panic as I’m taking off more than just my coat after he says, come inside it’s freezing out there. I fathom those phantom eyes want that chasing tempo paced around my neck in aisle four of the all night supermarket, they imagine my green sweater hanging behind the front door in the morning, every morning after all those nights of sparklers in the back alleys lighting hop-scotch paths for jumping the same syncopation as every night, beating breath one at a time (in time) initiative for the next time.
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S.P. Attack TS!
She thought it was a good idea, I guess, to round us up once a week to roll about in the sand. We all agreed at one point or another thinking and generally believing we could conquer the world. In the three months said things should have been taking place such only occurred twice. And the bit about thriving on top hasn’t happened thus far and I’m beginning to suspect it just isn’t in our cards.
There’s a deadly diamond formed for either side of the score. Arms legs flailing thrashing about, sand in your eyes and finding every crevice, every break in your skin. And he’s breaking down, useless banter, hold your head high young man, take off running to ruin the reception. Talking, talking, laughing carrying-on, carrying over on my right. Switch. Service. Down time. Hands meet. Hanging head, landing hard useless chase, buried hands beneath the sand. Not. A WORD. of Recognition.
When you play team sports there’s an unwritten rule I’ve broken not to take down your own teammates. But he hasn’t been around to hear this and I know everyone else won’t give a shit. I hate him for vandalizing me. Feeding me flowers wrapped in duct tape, left in my mail box with a return for additional postage sticker stapled to a petal. Waving me worthless larks to spin on my record player. Deaf and allergic and grazing the face of my defaced antics……………..//././/../
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Antics! Oh antics. The goddamn antics we play! We sound like an old married couple! Anyone who’s ever heard us should know for Christ’s sake, we shout the most useless gestures. Waving from the front seat to the back round about and back around. Oh antics. Those godDAMN antics. New antics and old antics. Idealistic antics verses pragmatic.
Those recoursing response/reaction antics I am never ready to receive. Reeling and riling. The he said/she said anticipation antics and oh those goddamn middle road antagonizing antics. Hey in the street. YOU! In the back, you with the sucker punch and the dandelions. Antagonize me! Vandalize me! Knock this girl upside the head and heed me no warning though my aristocratic antics differ from your proletariat type antics I will shout my words to make them louder than actions. Staging a fit if I have to. Those ticking tactless antics left reasonably raw after all the semantic antics were said and done. But whose to blame? After all the pushing/pulling, pouncing/pawing, pawning and check-mating antics I should think our sedated inhibitions should rise up and shake the hands of our antics because these wars are just too much for me to take anymore.
