GrahamCentralStation

City Lights The rusty smoke from crumbling stacks, the cacophony of horns, the reeking dumpster behind a seedy bookstore. The buildings looming overhead, bending to block out the last rays of natural light. The all-night eateries and dingy cafés (Can I get a clean glass please?), shuffling steps, and slurred words over stale coffee at 3 A.M. on a Tuesday. The booth on the end, with its one flickering heat lamp. Long sighs, circles under eyes, hands running over stress soaked brows, and the pile of jaundiced cigarettes dumped last week to sit in the rain. A clot of cholesterol in the heart of the city.

Drought of Addiction Its depression lands me on my knees sliding towards the edge of an immense cliff. A precipice whose ledge I can feel pass under my knees and across the tops of my toes. I plummet. Through the whir of desert drought, catching glimpses of an arm's blackberry infection. Vision spinning as my fingers lick the plunger of a needle from heaven.

Miracle of the Machine Age It was the first thing I saw, all yellow and blue, sticking out among the wreckage and painted with optimism and expressionless eyes. “Will the people be brave?” “Will the world be new?” I ask and wait for his knee-jerk reaction, a nod with fiercely false enthusiasm. “Liar,” I mutter, at his plasticine sneer, “this Wasteland has has broken us, and stolen our years.” But I can't be too pissed. This Vault-Tec Boy- a pre-war toy, will fetch me a bundle in caps. New boots, more ammo, a scope for my rifle, and before long my face matches his megaton smile. You see, w

Another Jazz Standard I drove past the music shop yesterday to see what basses they had. Used light blue Jazz, right on the rack. Awesome. I checked it out. I plugged it up. Yes, it is a real Fender. Airbrush line art on the lower body, white pick guard. Straight neck, but the paint is worn and not like Jaco's. I got lucky- Lowered it down from the $225.00 on the price tag. 175 even. The look on my face was his payment in full. “Throw on some new strings and tune it up, I'll see you Saturday.”

The Vile Animate Abhorred splendors of space! Free of moorings, free of empires, free of kin. Planets- the only patrons of the void, poured out by freak divinity. Come angels and make torture! Move about the cogs of time. Let fall the azure sky and bring the lie a little closer. Movement- a balance of indecision and intelligent action. Perpetually skating the parasite's mouth. I am soured by this law. No furious, high response? Paradise- freedom from the mess of gravity.

Justice She looks disheartened, like a kid said no to one to many times. Its strange how she can glare at me, but it doesn't cut me deep. Just enough to leave a hair of a scar, that nags at me and tugs at my vision so that I can't forget. Disappointment comes to mind, I think she's disappointed but I cannot say. I was never good at reading people. I suppose that I should say something. Something comforting; clichés come to mind. I guess the only thing to do is turn away from eyes blinded by a layer of marble with scales held aloft.

Cornea "There's something in your eyes." You said, as you stood before me. But I just smiled and looked away, I can't let your eyes consume me. You pulled my gaze back your way, you said that somethings missing. My eyes dropped slowly to the ground, "It's just my soul escaping."

Transindustrial Matching one's heart to a second's soul, will quickly leave the arteries filled with coal.

Fixer Its like coffee and Tylenol and counter-intuitive. Cameras and Clorox for sterile memories, bleached of meaning; save the thickness of photo paper and the physicality of the curled and yellowing temporary.

Transcendentalism The sky, a painted ceiling which rolls unfettered timeless as the stars but with a dusky transparency that draws our eyes to heaven with a yearning: to get a glimpse of the divine, to get a glimpse of home. I dream of the day when the soul inside the husk may soar unchained through the suns, and nebulae, and cosmic debris to meditate amongst the stars and comprehend the universe within the we.

What's in a name If not called? Possibly known, But never uttered. A face in view, No title in mind. Overlooked, unnoticed, A shadow. The outline of a soul Wishing to be seen. Look now, There it waits. So what's in a name If never uttered? Just a person, Waiting to be called.

The heart, like fine china Delicate and fragile. Held with love and caring, And often dropped without. For a time, laying broken, It is not itself. The body wails, Such beauty destroyed. Eventually, the cause Becomes the cure. The pieces put back The whole held once more.

Hey, where did my midsection go? A midriff-less drifts listlessly by, Is that mine? I doubt it. Mine wasn't a liar. Hey where did my slippers go? I slip less on slippery floors with my slippers on. I can't leave my room now. Color me explicated Dehydrogenated facade supplicating two tone sonovision Summertime in Schenectady Play me by like a melody strong strings strain blood blown glass gleams glimmers glamorously glints gleefully while glaring threatingly. A Threat to throttle the throat though methinks this idea ideally is idyllic. Erudite apocolyptic apogees arriving on time, on course, of course. Dont be peddlin y

My finger cuts a swathe through The steamy canvas on my shower door. Beaded heated water droplets Slowly race down to the bathtub's floor. Sunlight, skewed, overwhelms my window. I think I'll skip work again tomorrow.