Hanging Around

“He's gonna do it!”
“He's gonna jump!”

At 5:37 PM, a man was standing on the ledge of a building that happened to be a hotel. Presumably, he rented a room before making his way up to room 915, opening the freshly streaked window, and climbing out on the ledge using the convenient balcony. This spectacle caused a crowd of people to gather around below in addition to the numerous strobe lights of emergency vehicles that appeared much more palliative than preventive. As if traffic was bad enough during rush hour.

Funnily enough, earlier that day, that very same man wasn't too worried about his life and how long it would last. As usual, he began his hour long commute to work. He lived outside the city in the safety of the suburbs, a place where he was born and raised and where his father was born and raised, etc. He definitely wasn't a big city boy, but he had little choice given his circumstance. Living on his own and attempting to pay the bills on an art degree would be nearly impossible, even though he knew his artwork had a permanent residence in his mother's home (“So proud of you! So proud!”).

The man wasn't one for presentations, but his boss insisted he lead this one. After all, what better use for an art degree than the creation of infinite charts and graphs plotting the progress of some office supply company? His daily commute was a little less lonely, however, what with the pieces of cardboard in the passenger seat to keep him company. He needed someone to talk to, especially this morning. Between getting out of bed late and destroying his coffee with creamer, he was falling behind in his schedule. He was late and the traffic lights were not helping him. They swung back and forth with an embarrassed red emitting from them as if they were sorry about it and there was nothing they could do about it. He took a sip from his coffee between the stop and go. Green light. Red light. Green light. Red light. The man took his eyes away for a second to take another sip when the car behind him honked, causing him to fumble his thermos up and down the dashboard. He saved it, but not before turning quarter profits into a caffeine loaded Niagara Falls.

That's it. He was done with this for now. The car was pulled over into the parking lot of the nearest bar and the man called to let his boss know that due to an emergency, he wouldn't be able to make it to the presentation and to go on without him. Slam the door. Walk inside. Sit down at the front. He had this plan all figured out.

What he didn't have figured out was a man. Well, he was less a man and more of a demon. Perhaps more like a reaper of sorts than a demon. He didn't do much of the haunting or possessing. He did, however, do a little of soul repossessing, taking back a soul to an afterward after they were done here. With the world getting a little more full everyday, the pressure was on for him and the death figure needed all the help he could get. Having spotted Potential Suicide Man at the bar, he took the stool next to him. The man was quick to start up a conversation, letting him know of his current issue of the day. Death quickly let him know of his current issue and gave him a hotel key to a room on the 9th floor (great view, but lacked decent room service). After weighing the pros and cons, the man took the key and drove over to the hotel.

Death was right about one thing: the room did have a decent view. The pavement didn't look so hard from up there. Despite the circumstances, the man had a calm disposition and only muttered phrases under his breath (“Oh, what a great view from up here. Oh, what many lights there are down there. Better for the attention I suppose”). He stayed up there for at least twenty minutes. Even the optimists were starting to get bored.

“Woah, woah, hold up!” The hotel room door opened and the man peaked through the balcony window only to see Death walking towards him. “Listen, I know what I said earlier, but that street would look a lot better without you fused to it. The thing is, we're overbooked for the next few weeks. Go back to your life, enjoy it. Don't fret about those crazy graphs. Besides, if I need more people, I'll just work the suicide hotline or something. Christmas is coming up soon. Tis the season to be lonely.” Somehow, the skeleton sighed. “Go back home,” he said, and left the room with the man still on the ledge.

Autobiography

Your head's so black and blue
From your thoughts,
They've got nothing on you

Your remains act so new
Ask your mom
They've got nothing on you

Is there a reason behind this spider web?
Where the man is caught, well more or less.
A difference not seen by many
Other than yourself

It's haunting your dreams
And brightening your nightmares
Nowhere to run away
No one left to care

The numbers, 1 or 2
Not a lot
They've got nothing on you

Think, my dear sir, before you speak
Look, my dear sir, before you leap

They've got nothing on you.

Not yet, anyway.

Welcome to Another Friday
Where you look forward to another Friday
Waiting for that layoff
So you have all day to think

About you-know-who
Who's holding you back
Yet pushing you through another day
Because what choice do you have?

Nostalgia is Sticky

I'm sure all the proms are the same
The same guys hanging on to dear life
At least what they consider it to be
The same girls hanging on to their seams

At least what they hoped it would be.

There's another boy in the parking lot
Walking with his brother to the event
Money organized and glasses tilted down
A hop, skip, and a jump away
From letting go.

At least what they consider it to be

There's a reason why we're so removed
From that moment that we held on to
Waving hello to the camera and goodbye
to the last few moments of control

Here's to that last look in your eyes
The gray that filled the room
That unconscious understanding
A picture of me waving around

I'd take a drink, but I'd spit it up
A song, a rhythm I can't quite grip

A remedy for this melody
A reason to believe
That it all gets better in the end
Where there's no other friend

Other than the idea of that night

My God, I was so nervous,
But the air felt so right

And I remember looking out and pretending
There was nothing in the way

All Wrong

I lay down and listen
to the silence in my head
You're keeping me awake
more often than I intended

I'm trying not to look back
What am I saving it for?
Is it the answer to my problems
or the doorway unto more?

Got something, can't help it
Because I'm love stupid

I'm not even sure that
that's the right word anymore

Am I Alright?

Chances are that I'll live
To see the next tomorrow
But it's always the same when
I know you're the variable

Am I Alright?

Why the Now?

My knuckles are bleeding through.
Finally.
There's a certain taste in the air.
But I'm not sure what it is.
A little salty, a little fear,
a little "let me show you how to do it"

I need your help.
I need you to pick me up.
And put me back down in the right spot.

Pull me away from the toys section.
Get me away from the cereal with the prize inside.

It looks so great, what with the colors and features and everything.

For once, I need something.
I need some sort of guiding question.

I need a prompt, an autobiographical map.

I guess my question for myself is "Why now?"
"Why at this point do you feel out of sync?"

The short answer is a cliche:
I'm so close, yet far away.

The long answer is, well, just that.

I guess you just had to be there.

So before one jumps to conclusions,
No matter where you jump,
I'm already trying to hard wire the landing.

I'm usually on the wrong spot.
Can you help?

Art

There it was again.

The thin yet thick, the black yet white, the hard yet smooth image composed upon that canvas. It appeared almost isolated behind the glass of the corner gallery. The place was juxtaposed between the old and the shine with half facing the main street that was populated by many. Some on their way to work, others to home. The doors opened onto a side street where few ventured unless they had errands that required that path. It wasn't dirty, just unknown; it contained what people would imagine any city street to have: wrappers and puddles that appeared to form from nothing, an Asian restaurant that served the best dumplings that no one knew about, sewer grates and vagabonds.

But none of this was important to the man walking by that day. He was there by mishap, waking up to his car broken into, the windows shattered and the tires slashed. His CD collection was missing as well as his sense of security. He hadn't taken public transportation in years and wasn't about to start now. There were no short cuts he was aware of, but he attempted to shimmy his way into every alley he could, huffing and coughing from the walking, the other extreme to his indolent life style.

He finally came to a rest next to the gallery. Putting his briefcase down and leaning against a brick wall that would surely rub off onto his ironed white shirt. He didn't care at this point. Starting tomorrow, he would suck it up and take the bus, making sure he did his route research. The man looked up into the windows of the gallery.

More of the same, he thought.

However, when regained whatever will to go on, he had to stop when a certain piece of art demanded his attention. The man wasn't one to assign personalities to paintings. After all, he was a very logical man. Works of art didn't necessarily "speak" to him, just as his car was a vehicle and nothing more, but he reconsidered for a split second as this painting seemed to stare at him.

-

The next day he found himself in the same spot, still huffing and catching his latte breath. Still looking at that painting. He didn't dare go in, but instead looked at the painting from the outside, separated by a sheet of glass that acted like so much more. This depiction of nature somehow moved something inside of him, jump starting his heart in a way that hadn't been done in quite some time.

The next day was the same, and the next, and the day after that, and so forth.

One day the painting was not there. Where one might fall to their knees in the way one loses meaning in their life, the man did not panic. It wasn't that the painting didn't capture him enough for him to purchase it and hang it in his living room. It moved him so much that couldn't purchase it. He could only hope that the one who did buy it meant that much to them. He just wished that it wasn't sheltered and hidden from the world, but this was a part of life. Sometimes the meaning behind this canvas was that life goes on.

The empty section in the gallery that once contained his motivation suddenly gave him a new realization: he was not out of breath anymore.

Skye

I'm not quite sure where she is now.

I haven't thought about her in a while, and I'm not sure how she's doing. Last time we spoke personally, we were sitting in her room and I was sitting on the floor running my hand through her room's carpet. She was sitting in front of her computer playing with sticky notes. We were listening to some blue grass. Earlier, she had her record player running with all sorts of oldies echoing throughout her attic room.

She was thinking about Sarah Lawrence for the next four years. It was in New York, as well as being a bit expensive. In the end, she chose not to go.

We promised to stay in touch. Of course we didn't.

Her house was full of scattered memories. I don't remember her house in general, just the rooms where I remember specific events.

The room where we would watch cult films.
The room where we pretended to be a band and played slow circus music.
The room where I looked at her senior pictures and her parents said to take one because they had too many.

I'm not sure exactly what I remember.

I still have her number, but I don't think I'll ever call it.
Of course, when I decide to, it will no longer be in service.

We haven't spoken in a while, and it'll probably remain that way until a while turns into a life time.

Welcome to Today

It's so funny
Kinda funny
How my friends are starting to get married

Out of school
No job or money
A plot twist on an old wive's tale about dairy

She still fits her dress
Too young to reminisce
I got problems of my own

Card in the spokes
Home away from home
A hometown hero on his own

It's true or fake
Are you too late?
I never know if you're alone

Welcome to today

She's got a baby
On the way
And I'm not sure if they think they're ready

They're still running
They're still running
Do you think the ring's flavored or is it me?

Don't think any less
Of the bride. Confess
that she's outta control

Card in the spokes
Home away from home
A hometown hero on his own

It's true or fake
Are you too late?
I never know if you're alone

Welcome to today

Their pictures
Have no smiles
Just denial, baby

Their future
Looks so bright, oh
Not senile lately.