The snow this morning reminded you of something lifeless. Like colorless, sugarless moonpies. The potential was there, for a party, outside in the cold.
But a short one with a short list of VIPs.
Inverted sugar. All dissenters head to Wegman’s. But the grocery store is only in its infancy–in Brooklyn that is.

It doesn’t come up for air and it takes you down with you, smearing you with dollops of frosting.
Arsenals of sweet, flaming colors, echoes of a coming Valentine’s Day that is always the day of reckoning.
Reckon you should bring your goods up to the surface, shake and shimmy, bite into the sweetness and let others know, “No. Not right now. I’m busy.”

The other times left bitter tastes in our mouths, upon realizing that neither one of us was very much in the mood for sampling anything more than concrete truth.

The wind drew itself into the room, lifted the curtains like the arms of a mystic in somber molding of a spirit.

We knew the truth was bullshit. We knew we’d rather have the magic no matter how it tasted and how it affected our hearts.

You’re so genius, you’re stupid.

Your brought the flowers in. And, while admiring their pistils and stamens, as you fucked photosynthesis  up the their ass, you failed to offer the basics of food and sunlight. Nary a moment of a Netflix series.

They died.

But the next time..

The next time, you pampered them in the way you knew the textbooks said they would thrive. You followed directions. Now that’s genius, stupid.

This time you left the flowers in the garden, in their roots, and did not bring your garden shears.

You looked at them. You left them alone.

Because I don’t have the money and even if I did, why would give it to you. You insulted me, gave me that stupid beanie and told me it was signed by Michael Jordan and I looked and looked for the signature and you said, Oops sorry, it must have gotten accidentally washed in along with the rest of your dirty laundry.
And speaking of gossip, word is around town that you don’t even like me and whenever I try to speak with you (like I’m doing now, duh). Bug you just give me that blank stare, with your mouth hanging open, drool coming out and shit, so of course I won’t give you money.

But I will give you a handkerchief. A cheap one.

I’ve never heard your voice before.

But this voice–that voice–I have heard before. It sounds like a woman that everyone has seen but not heard. A roar-renowned woman in solitary confinement. Contained with flotsam. Jetsam be damned; there is no room for partnerships in this room.

And yet, there are many voices–females forging through brick and mortar, only to find that they’ve digging the wrong way.

They are not doomed. Far from it. Their wrongs are someone’s else rights.

And with jetsam you find your way.

Someone removed his man-bun while the man slept. It was atrocious, both the man and bun. But the bun was removed, not the man.
The man remained.

Waiting over Time
Wading over Water and Time.
Time is water. Time is not money. Time is running out.

Waver over time. Quaver over money.

Quaver is not money.

Because nothing has happened yet. Except the following:
Death
Heartache
Debt
Loneliness
Crushing depression
Weight gain
Diminishment

I’m still here. The upgrades are coming in next week. The dog is needing his shots. The kids are asking new questions.
A new kind of cookie palace just opened around the corner.
That mole is benign. Looking even farther outward, any peanut gallery has dissolved into immutable specks of roving light. You can catch this light in the park. And the park happens all the time. It trumps what has happened.
It brings up the past and knows no bounds except for what govermentment has given it. And over the park…oh, wow, over the park, you see what gave the park, the park. The sky. It turned over and spilled the park and you everything that has happened.

Let fast be what it is. A pulsing debt to be called in only–and only–if you can be caught. You’ve learned speed and detours, and blasting through barricades. Debt demands nothing less. Chase me and my value grows. Catch me and you’ll get your cash.

Run over me and you’ll be king of the road. But give me a ride, take me along and we’ll be partners in crime. Affairs of the heart are the stocks to watch this year.