Sunday, September 20, 2009

Finger tips to collar bones


Took the alleys home tonight as usual in order to avoid the drunk and beligerent packs of gathering hyenas. The alleys are where the desperate and nauseated thrive out of pure desperation and this is where situations arise. There is a sense of survival of the fittest among those that truly own this town versus those that exist here. The Marlboro pulls harder and the urine smells stronger, this is reality.

I ended up at another 4 am bar with a couple of pals catching up on old times and finding out what the night still holds for a couple of slightly worn yet still charmed men. The Sam Cooke songs rang through the bar with memories of mom n pop telling stories of growing up in Detroit when a young lady pulled up to order a drink with the confidence of a battleship. I slowly dragged my head over my shoulder out of curiosity of this raspy voice only to find a perfect hand leading to the thin and delicate arm of an innocent young woman with a smile that could end a war. The kind of arm that instantly signifies a trim ankle with sticks to match. A Sox cap covering a head of sandy blonde hair tethered together in a precisely worn braid. One tooth out of place and no idea how she is ruining every man plastered in their stools. We take up in small talk of Sox vs. Tigers baseball that leads to soft squeezes of the forearm and heavy laughter followed by eye contact that lasts too long.

She's from the deep south side of Chicago, deep enough to not give a fuck about what happening neighborhood you live in or what kind of hustle you can feed her. She's having fun right now that's all she cares about because she's more real than you and she knows the secret to life without knowing it. Everything is natural, no intimidation, no unecessary sweating just easy fun with one of the most natural creatures you've ever been graced with. She starts singing along to the hits coming from the box on the wall further blowing your mind with knowledge of B sides that only your father should know. Every smile with the crooked tooth breaks you down further and further until you feel limp with awe. Smokey Robinson hits the air while one of her hands falls on your knee while the other presses lightly to her chest. Her eyes close while her head tilts back as though this song has given her the deepest breathe she has ever taken.

Choose your own adventure. Turn to page 156 if you decide to take a train deep south or page 78 if you push too hard and leave yourself typing on your computer. Just remember, nothing lasts forever.



/;Picture is of my favorite item for sale at the Davenport swap meet.

2 comments:

Mitch said...

page 78... page 156...you need to read a different book.

mind pill said...

heat with a shot of lightening...... damn boy