Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Accent

The ringer sounded off
over the sound of soft music,
he answered nervously
and listened closely to the words
coming across the air

She was driving some road he'd never seen,
and he wondered what she looked like
under the dim glow of dash lights
and the street bulbs as they'd bounce off her eyes

And when she spoke
it was as soft as the breath of a sleeping angel,
like a cool, silken sheet covering his ears
and the feeling from her smile
came through the phone like a whisper

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

What Now?

There was a moment,
a clearly unexplainable moment
that I realized I wanted
to eat this girl's pussy so bad I ached, literally ached,
my cock swelled with my lack of any decency or pride
and had me so snug downstairs that it was nearly impossible to hide
with mere shifting in my seat or crossing my legs
like I'm Sharron's character in some movie
that titled itself on instinct,
and all she'd do is giggle shyly at my advances,
never quite saying no, and I stalled in the door
using wordplay like "I'm Joseph Stalin"
and she again giggled,
but this time it was because she knew a bit of history,
in that moment I felt I understood very little about her,
I knew I wanted to know more than I can learn in bed
with a woman who seemed to be offering me her's,
my ego wasn't enough,
my curiosity is peaked,
what now of this moment?

Saturday, February 19, 2011

A Rebellious Afternoon In Concours

  We were 15 and 16 year old boys, midday and bored. My father had purchased a 1977 Chevy Nova Concours, deep, faded red with a white vinyl top, and we stood like slobbering wolves staring at the ignition key. Knowing it was against my father's wishes for me to drive the car was beside the point, I was a bit of a spoiled little shit and had to show off to my older friend, Tommy, who always seemed to get the girls and left us wondering how. It seemed an inspiring thing to try and top this fucking guy, and today it would only take the turn of my wrist. I turned the key and told them to strap in with the seat belts, as if we looked natural in that old car with expired tags, as if I had a license and could talk my way out of it all if we did see the blues through the rear view. We crept around town like a grandmother. I never got the thing above 35. We pulled into the mall and locked the doors. I remember thinking "This is what it feels like to be an adult, to own something and be proud when people see what it is.", and now I know it was silly to think such a thing, but at the time I had no clue and was very happy to be looking at my reflection in that glass that was at least a year older than I.

  A few moments later we were rummaging through stacks of old comics in Pie Eyes, this run down comic and card shop in a dying mall with the scummiest looking guy running the place. We told him something of how he drove a van and ran a comic store and how these things, when mixed with his general demeanor, kinda made us theorize that he were a child-fucker. He kicked us out of there, the old men across from us halted their game of dominoes to see what the fuss was about while we laughed and acted disrespectful to the world around us. I remember making eye contact with one of the old men though, just as we were turning to get out of there and it disturbed me, made me feel awful for what I'd just done and was continuing to do as I headed toward the parking lot, looking at those white-walls and shaking my head. I'll never forget that old man's face, that look in his eye that seemed to say he knew where I was coming from and one day I will too, and when I do I'll know why he was so seemingly sad to see us perform our bullshit rebellion.

  We moved on though, hit up this old pizza place with a buffet and convinced ourselves that although the place was full of cops and we look like we should be in school, if we act cool no one will fuck with us. "When we walk in here, we own this place, fuck your paranoia, I want some pizza!" I laughed as we jumped from the car. I didn't lock the doors this time, and I laughed as I thought about it while staring around the parking lot at the half-dozen or so Little Rock police cars. We ate and Tommy hit on the waitress. She didn't even serve us drinks but she came around to our table many times, and I'd look out at that Chevy and think "You'll never be able to drive whatever it is that attracts these creatures", and laughing at my silly sounding inner monologue.

  A few of the cops left and we followed them outside, got back in the car and went to the edge of the drive to wait on traffic. As we pulled out, I pushed the pedal too hard and we laid white smoke black marks for twenty or so feet just passed a puddle I had previously paid no attention to. I knew that right then, every cop in that place felt like we'd just slapped him, that it was personal. That these two shitty brats had just been allowed to eat and enjoy their youth without intercept only to be so disrespectful with an accelerator. So there we were, 90 or so miles per hour, midday, hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel and every curve now a mathematical calculation that with an incorrect sum could kill us both or someone else, and we knew it, and we kept going.

  After a few moments we realized there were no blue lights nor sirens, so we slowed down, way down to 35. We crept along like that back to the driveway, I backed it in and parked it where I'd left two piles of rocks in the tire centers on one side. We had our methods, and some paid off. The car was supposed to be my first, but that didn't happen because we needed to make a house payment. So my father sold it to this guy a few years later, and he used it to hop around town to the bars and pick up all the fly-types. I seen it a few times while I was in my first car, and when I was in my second car, then I heard the guy had died and I never seen the Nova again. I still think about that day often, what it meant and how it affected me, and I wonder where that old car is and if anyone has any stories they'd share about it.

Monday, February 7, 2011

Thoughts As Long As The Days

Thoughts of being alone with my mind and genitals seep in,
and that's when the weight of it all hits with it's hardest blow,
the fact that there's no one here to feel
the breaths blow from between my lips
when I share the inner most parts of myself,
as well as there's no beautiful woman blowing me,
taking my mind away from all the torture of being alone,
instead, I'm typing about it in mid-afternoon
with a hard-on the happy pills won't let cross
the messiest of finish lines
and nowhere moist to run the race
regardless of my love for breaking tape.

It's in these moments that I feel the duality of man kicking in,
times when I'd sacrifice any chance of something real
for something I can, at the least, pretend is real,
even if only so long as to again realize my heart longs for more,
knowing all the while my mind and body wouldn't so much give a shit,
knowing that talking from the heart is just a commoner's way
of describing that they don't know what they want,
but they want something, I want something,
and I don't know who or what that something is supposed to be


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

On A Cold Afternoon in February

I grabbed a balled-up napkin from my nightstand-like table
and could smell lemon, sending me back to hours earlier
when I'd sat alone at a local "goofy shit on the walls" restaurant,
staring out the window into the parking lot
as old people fought against the wind to get back
to their over-sized trucks and extra-long cars,
one guy even lost his hat, and every once in a while
I'd stare at the fire the had going in a large stone fireplace
with little pots and kettles hanging around the logs,
as if somewhere, amongst the store out front filled with cheap toys,
chocolate scented candles and over-priced Ameiricana,
there lies lost some wandering old cowboy who now wonders
if he's make it back in from the 140 pound peanut brittle mountain
in time to stir the beans before they burn,
how thinking about her and burning anything
made me want to push my plate away,
the one I'm eating alone,
and all I can think about is my muse,
how I used to feel about her on days like this,
with all these ridiculous thoughts in my head that bring me a smile
or anger me with their uselessness, how today is her birthday
and I can't tell her that I truly wish it to be a happy one,
how I miss her still... all this from the smell of napkins,
lemons from the tea I drank to wash down the food
that I could barely stomach and later expelled
in a violent case of lost nerve,
all I can do is make myself laugh
at how terrible it is that I miss her,
a girl who could never understand how silly I can be
when I'm so damned directionless on a keyboard
and all I can think about is her


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)