BasquiatYoung

Words Are Paint | Paint Our Words

[basquiatyoung]

Did(Ask)

“Mommy, it’s cold….” The wind did indeed screech against the side walk. Ice rain swooped down glinting silver and copper against the street light. She held her mother’s hand–a singular source of warmth– and looked down, it was all she, they, could do. “It’s ok we’re almost there.” Martha said between breaths and high-pitched gusts as much for her sake as it was for Nilda’s.  Cabs played lullabies with their tires as they sloshed their way down a sleepy Broadway. “Where we going?” Nilda asked, looking up at her mother who was now looking forward, past an impossible horizon beyond 180th, a million miles away. “Towards freedom sweetie, you coudln’t understand today…maybe someday–” “–when I’m older…” Nilda wasted no time inturrupting and subsequently completed the thought. Secretly she couldn’t help but squirm witnessing such a precarious little– Still…Martha felt a swelling of pride, the rekindling of a gleam in her eyes, which hurried her steps and caused Nilda to protest. “Mommy, where we going?” “Ugh, sweetie…Titi’s house.” She finally replied gripping her little hand just a tad harder. “But grandma made spaghetti and salami!” “Come on! It’s cold! I’ll buy you some nuggets.” At this Nilda pulled with half her strength, and, rather impressively for a child of eight, stops her mother in her tracks. “I don’t like nuggets.” Silver-dollar eyes transfixed on the heavens, she pleaded with unicorns and stars sight unseen. “Yes you do. Listen, sweetie, you’re going to have to do me a big favor.” Martha crouched before her daughter looped a dancing strand of hair around her ear. “Stop asking so many questions, and I promise one day I’ll send you to school for journalism.” Their eyes met, and Nilda erupted with the giggles. Martha knelt on her right knee, grabbing a loose end of Nilda’s scarf as to re-wrap it. "Can I ask you two questions?” Nilda whispers, almost regretting the exasperation she’s brought about. Martha wrangles a lung full of frost, preparing for an inquiry on anything ranging from tonight’s menu to the very nature of existence. “Sure.” She replies. Nilda’s pupils reach into the corner of her mind as her eyes close, examining if the interrogatories are still worth it.  "Where are we going?“ Her mother responds in kind, searching for a suitable answer. A wave of courage is found and summoned as she responds with; "Towards freedom, sweetie.” “How long is it going to take before we get there?” Martha exhales, staring  at her creation and partial clone as if she’s about to immortalize her likeness in an oil painting. “Can you remember these two things?” “Answer my question.” The little one demands with a burrow in her frow. “I am. Look baby, it doesn’t matter how long it takes…as long as you’re headed in the right direction.” She smiles, for the first time her rambunctiousness has been subdued. “What’s the other one mommy?” “Mommy loves you.” She replied, also whispering to the wind.  

[basquiatyoung]

#wordsmith #feels

[basquiatyoung]

Patriarchs By Proxy

‪#‎flashfiction‬

“You young'ns wanna talk about struggle, but fact is you wouldn’t know struggle if it bit you in the sack. Ustedes no saben lo que es pasar trabajo”

The patriarch by default, having inherited the title after a string of deaths began to plague a generation of the clan’s octogenarians; sits in the big chair, situated corner perpendicular from the fireplace. The younger generations gather round him, some standing, some fidgeting in plastic covered couches with others in folding chairs; listening to the condescension with patience.

The leader of the twenty-somethings spoke up, to the collective gasp of those around him. “Uncle, not for nothin’…but we got it hard out here too. You have no idea.” He adjusted his tie along with his belt, hoping they would lend credibility.

“Bullshit!” He counters while the tip of his cane raps the floor, punctuating his revulsion. “I used to walk from Savanalarga to Bohechio. I used to wake up at 4 AM so I had time to milk the cows and fetch the milk before school. My younger brother, rest in peace was right there with me…gathering kinder for the fire. The bell rang at 7 AM sharp! Made it back home at 6 PM just in time to round up the chickens…bathed, ate and then three hours of school work. On the weekends we had to help out your grampa cutting and sanding wood to be turned into caskets. When I left the home of my childhood I made towards San Juan. Three jobs and a hustle just to keep your aunts and uncles fed in that god forsaken city! I haven’t known a day of rest in my life! ….shit. Ustedes son blanditos coño!” Another rap of the cane.

“We understand the sacrifices you made, all of y'all. Aunties, uncles, auntie Velma, God rest her soul. But check it…you kill yourself to give us an education these gringos don’t want us to have. They tell us to chase freedom yet we’re often shot as we’re climbing the fence. Women now a days ain’t worth a damn and gentlemen got replaced with boosters and trap stars. Trap stars, do you hear this shit?”

“Heh. You know I was a caco negro regiment? I still remember the fresh smell of gun powder rising out the muzzle pointed at my nose.” As Old Chino speaks, Aurelio’s chest begins to crest and fall like the fevered waves of a hurricane crashing on coastal rocks. “Yet I would have gladly given my life if it meant our Quisqueya would be sovereign to rise.”

Milena caught Aurelio’s enraged gaze; as their eyes met she attempted to plea him towards temperance as he steps off his left foot, pushing past the crowd of mourners and towards the door.

She meets him in the unrelenting frost of the 10x6 back yard. As the backdoor floats shut, he lights a cig and takes his first puffs. He walks along the yard’s perimeter; searching for his composure.

Milena begins in her snake charmer’s voice…a meek attempt at subduing the viper rising up his spine; his eyes fire and brimstone. “Baby please…”

Aurelio reaches for his waist, untucking his shirt from his slacks; “I’m going to show them…damn it I’m going to TELL THEM!” The cigarette is flicked, tearing the ember in twain, leaving a school of shooting stars in its place.

She puts her palms on his pulsing chest “It’s not worth it! Baby please! Why don’t you just have some sancocho it’s almost over.”

“Fuck do you know?” His inquiry punctuated by silence, highlighted by headlights of passing cars.

He storms back to the living room, ducking and weaving past a swelling sea of faceless relatives – to the fireplace. Dulce, the eldest daughter of the sixty-somethings asks; “Did you have some sancocho dear?” But all she got back was a silent nod.

After a few moments of bubbling fury, Aurelio stomped towards the coffee table, retrieving 1911 Smith & Wesson from his right hip…letting it crash against the oak with a defiant thud, giving way to a cacophony of spoons drooping against their bowls. He furiously undoes his black tie and rips open his shirt, turning slightly left to reveal an unsightly scar stretching from his armpit to his waist.

“I was fifteen! Fifteen, and I still made the honor roll that year! You decrepit f—”

The silence hovers just above the room for eternity. Until, Chino…the oldest patriarch by default, passes the torch to the new Duke of the clan. “I guess some shit just never changes nephew…”

The tremolo in his voice betrays both a deep pride, a hidden sorrow.

[basquiatyoung]

#wordsmith (one of the favorite things I’ve written)

[basquiatyoung]

Gotham, Mi Amore (Did)

He doesn’t quite remember getting off the plane, the witty rebuttal uttered to the customs agents, something about having business and pleasure cocktails. He doesn’t remember putting on all his chains, made of the finest Guayanese gold, before he left the hotel room; he doesn’t quite know where the wherewithal came to take the train. Yet, he is suddenly aware of himself now. As he regains his senses, he smells the electric quality of the air. His phone, panic button home, his connection to a bewildered wife, could be charged through osmosis. Scattered news papers pitter patter through the street, echoes of yesterday’s news. Neon lights interspersed with holographic sirens; they all invite you to escape for a spell, forget your troubles.

Raul, however, longed to face them.

It’s not as if he hadn’t made a respectable life for himself. Three children graduated from private schools, moving on or almost finishing private colleges; by all accounts, along with his successes in textile trades, he had an enviable life. Still, he held an insatiable itch for that which lies beyond the gilded cage. Today, he would laugh in the face of countless “What if’s?” and tango in the realm of “Fuck it, why not?”

There’s a hint of cool in the air, a mid-summer breeze with which he is thoroughly aquatinted, for all the differences there are many similarities. This one however, reeks equal parts promise and despair, progress and obsolescence. The shores back home, fuck, the just smell like coconuts and rum. Right now, he isn’t sure which he prefers.

“Never trust a free lunch; if it smells good, pay half upfront, if it tastes good, double up and ask for more…If it makes you feel good; ask for the recipe. You’ll never go wrong.”

The words of his dying father echo through the corridors of his mind, as he stumbles on, asking himself, “What the fuck am I doing?”

[basquiatyoung]

“Never trust a free lunch; if it smells good, pay half upfront, if it tastes good, double up and ask for more…If it makes you feel good; ask for the recipe. You’ll never go wrong.”

[basquiatyoung]

Gotham, Mi Amore (Did)

He doesn’t quite remember getting off the plane, the witty rebuttal uttered to the customs agents, something about having business and pleasure cocktails. He doesn’t remember putting on all his chains, made of the finest Guayanese gold, before he left the hotel room; he doesn’t quite know where the wherewithal came to take the train. Yet, he is suddenly aware of himself now. As he regains his senses, he smells the electric quality of the air. His phone, panic button home, his connection to a bewildered wife, could be charged through osmosis. Scattered news papers pitter patter through the street, echoes of yesterday’s news. Neon lights interspersed with holographic sirens; they all invite you to escape for a spell, forget your troubles.

Raul, however, longed to face them.

It’s not as if he hadn’t made a respectable life for himself. Three children graduated from private schools, moving on or almost finishing private colleges; by all accounts, along with his successes in textile trades, he had an enviable life. Still, he held an insatiable itch for that which lies beyond the gilded cage. Today, he would laugh in the face of countless “What if’s?” and tango in the realm of “Fuck it, why not?”

There’s a hint of cool in the air, a mid-summer breeze with which he is thoroughly aquatinted, for all the differences there are many similarities. This one however, reeks equal parts promise and despair, progress and obsolescence. The shores back home, fuck, the just smell like coconuts and rum. Right now, he isn’t sure which he prefers.

“Never trust a free lunch; if it smells good, pay half upfront, if it tastes good, double up and ask for more…If it makes you feel good; ask for the recipe. You’ll never go wrong.”

The words of his dying father echo through the corridors of his mind, as he stumbles on, asking himself, “What the fuck am I doing?”

[basquiatyoung]

Patriarchs By Proxy

‪#‎flashfiction‬

"You young'ns wanna talk about struggle, but fact is you wouldn't know struggle if it bit you in the sack. Ustedes no saben lo que es pasar trabajo"

The patriarch by default, having inherited the title after a string of deaths began to plague a generation of the clan's octogenarians; sits in the big chair, situated corner perpendicular from the fireplace. The younger generations gather round him, some standing, some fidgeting in plastic covered couches with others in folding chairs; listening to the condescension with patience.

The leader of the twenty-somethings spoke up, to the collective gasp of those around him. "Uncle, not for nothin'...but we got it hard out here too. You have no idea." He adjusted his tie along with his belt, hoping they would lend credibility.

"Bullshit!" He counters while the tip of his cane raps the floor, punctuating his revulsion. "I used to walk from Savanalarga to Bohechio. I used to wake up at 4 AM so I had time to milk the cows and fetch the milk before school. My younger brother, rest in peace was right there with me...gathering kinder for the fire. The bell rang at 7 AM sharp! Made it back home at 6 PM just in time to round up the chickens...bathed, ate and then three hours of school work. On the weekends we had to help out your grampa cutting and sanding wood to be turned into caskets. When I left the home of my childhood I made towards San Juan. Three jobs and a hustle just to keep your aunts and uncles fed in that god forsaken city! I haven't known a day of rest in my life! ....shit. Ustedes son blanditos coño!" Another rap of the cane.

"We understand the sacrifices you made, all of y'all. Aunties, uncles, auntie Velma, God rest her soul. But check it...you kill yourself to give us an education these gringos don't want us to have. They tell us to chase freedom yet we're often shot as we're climbing the fence. Women now a days ain't worth a damn and gentlemen got replaced with boosters and trap stars. Trap stars, do you hear this shit?"

"Heh. You know I was a caco negro regiment? I still remember the fresh smell of gun powder rising out the muzzle pointed at my nose." As Old Chino speaks, Aurelio's chest begins to crest and fall like the fevered waves of a hurricane crashing on coastal rocks. "Yet I would have gladly given my life if it meant our Quisqueya would be sovereign to rise."

Milena caught Aurelio's enraged gaze; as their eyes met she attempted to plea him towards temperance as he steps off his left foot, pushing past the crowd of mourners and towards the door.

She meets him in the unrelenting frost of the 10x6 back yard. As the backdoor floats shut, he lights a cig and takes his first puffs. He walks along the yard's perimeter; searching for his composure.

Milena begins in her snake charmer's voice...a meek attempt at subduing the viper rising up his spine; his eyes fire and brimstone. "Baby please..."

Aurelio reaches for his waist, untucking his shirt from his slacks; "I'm going to show them...damn it I'm going to TELL THEM!" The cigarette is flicked, tearing the ember in twain, leaving a school of shooting stars in its place.

She puts her palms on his pulsing chest "It's not worth it! Baby please! Why don't you just have some sancocho it's almost over."

"Fuck do you know?" His inquiry punctuated by silence, highlighted by headlights of passing cars.

He storms back to the living room, ducking and weaving past a swelling sea of faceless relatives -- to the fireplace. Dulce, the eldest daughter of the sixty-somethings asks; "Did you have some sancocho dear?" But all she got back was a silent nod.

After a few moments of bubbling fury, Aurelio stomped towards the coffee table, retrieving 1911 Smith & Wesson from his right hip...letting it crash against the oak with a defiant thud, giving way to a cacophony of spoons drooping against their bowls. He furiously undoes his black tie and rips open his shirt, turning slightly left to reveal an unsightly scar stretching from his armpit to his waist.

"I was fifteen! Fifteen, and I still made the honor roll that year! You decrepit f---"

The silence hovers just above the room for eternity. Until, Chino...the oldest patriarch by default, passes the torch to the new Duke of the clan. "I guess some shit just never changes nephew..."

The tremolo in his voice betrays both a deep pride, a hidden sorrow.

[basquiatyoung]

Did(Ask)

"Mommy, it's cold...." The wind did indeed screech against the side walk. Ice rain swooped down glinting silver and copper against the street light. She held her mother's hand--a singular source of warmth-- and looked down, it was all she, they, could do. "It's ok we're almost there." Martha said between breaths and high-pitched gusts as much for her sake as it was for Nilda's.  Cabs played lullabies with their tires as they sloshed their way down a sleepy Broadway. "Where we going?" Nilda asked, looking up at her mother who was now looking forward, past an impossible horizon beyond 180th, a million miles away. "Towards freedom sweetie, you coudln't understand today...maybe someday--" "--when I'm older..." Nilda wasted no time inturrupting and subsequently completed the thought. Secretly she couldn't help but squirm witnessing such a precarious little-- Still...Martha felt a swelling of pride, the rekindling of a gleam in her eyes, which hurried her steps and caused Nilda to protest. "Mommy, where we going?" "Ugh, sweetie...Titi's house." She finally replied gripping her little hand just a tad harder. "But grandma made spaghetti and salami!" "Come on! It's cold! I'll buy you some nuggets." At this Nilda pulled with half her strength, and, rather impressively for a child of eight, stops her mother in her tracks. "I don't like nuggets." Silver-dollar eyes transfixed on the heavens, she pleaded with unicorns and stars sight unseen. “Yes you do. Listen, sweetie, you’re going to have to do me a big favor.” Martha crouched before her daughter looped a dancing strand of hair around her ear. "Stop asking so many questions, and I promise one day I’ll send you to school for journalism.” Their eyes met, and Nilda erupted with the giggles. Martha knelt on her right knee, grabbing a loose end of Nilda’s scarf as to re-wrap it. "Can I ask you two questions?" Nilda whispers, almost regretting the exasperation she's brought about. Martha wrangles a lung full of frost, preparing for an inquiry on anything ranging from tonight's menu to the very nature of existence. "Sure." She replies. Nilda's pupils reach into the corner of her mind as her eyes close, examining if the interrogatories are still worth it.  "Where are we going?" Her mother responds in kind, searching for a suitable answer. A wave of courage is found and summoned as she responds with; "Towards freedom, sweetie." "How long is it going to take before we get there?" Martha exhales, staring  at her creation and partial clone as if she's about to immortalize her likeness in an oil painting. "Can you remember these two things?" "Answer my question." The little one demands with a burrow in her frow. "I am. Look baby, it doesn't matter how long it takes...as long as you're headed in the right direction." She smiles, for the first time her rambunctiousness has been subdued. "What's the other one mommy?" "Mommy loves you." She replied, also whispering to the wind.  

[basquiatyoung]

No Copper, No Trespassing (434)

NO COPPER, NO TRESPASSING.

He climbed the fence by way of the gas station stop-n-go. There’s a maze of weeds and dandelions covering the yard of his youth. Northwest away from the house there’s a swing set corroded by time and forgotten by the adults it once knew as children. Jake pulls out a cigarette and with a deep draw he takes it all in. Somewhere, what he seeks still lives here, despite the best efforts of three owners and two decades.

He walks around towards the front; running his fingers along the tilting shingles, falling water spouts, leaving various spider webs in his wake. Down to his last cigarette, last wish and last dollar, absolutely resolute.  

It’s here somewhere, and he needs to find it.

He will.

The windows through which his dreams of youth were born found themselves boarded up; with a warning to anyone who would aim to break for the sake of funding quick fix.

“NO COPPER, NO TRESPASSING!”

Exasperated pleas scrawled in shaky pseudo graffiti.

He finds an errant piece of rebar on the floor, using it to tear out the the board, splinters of plywood flutter through the evening sky. The look like sparks of fire under the orange street lights. Copper isn’t on his mind but it’d be a lie if he said the thought hadn’t passed through it, if for no other reason than a quick infusion of capital.

Indignation is spared as he cocks the rebar back and aims it at the sliding window. Glass breaking sounds like the pop of champagne, for both are auditory manifestations of hope. He takes of his shirt and folds it over the window’s frame; still not enough to prevent a shards of glass from piercing his ankle on the way in. Drops of blood fall on the floor, flakes in a snow globe. A small sacrifice.

Flashes of Christmas dinners, first birthdays sitting at the kids table. Remnants of momma’s custard pie…hints of vanilla and cinnamon rise through the musk of dust and mildew. Drywall’s been long ago stripped revealing skeletons of rotting wood and amateur wiring; anything copper was clipped with chain cutters.

“Damn momma. What the fuck happened?” A twang of high-pitched pain reverberates off his ribs like the raised fourth, the blue note urging him to down a fifth. A lump in his throat size of a coal…a trio of tears falls down his left cheek as he drops his left knee.

His fist hits the ground, he slaps himself in the face…his fault they all lost their way.

©RobCL 2015 @BasquiatYoung

[paperpiglitn]

Flashing, God

“The Ones, You Put Them All Together, and You Have” a Flash Fiction Piece, 434 Words

Let me ask you a question:  what wouldn’t you do to avoid the rat race?  I know, I know; heavy subject for you to handle.  Especially while you’re watching me sip this coffee and smoke my cigarette—right?  That’s my point.  Here’s another question:  How many cars do you notice ever leaving this place?  We’re all active people here within The Ones; our children have ballet and art classes; football and baseball practices.  We work out and work in general.  Well, at least all of these other schmucks.  You see, I’m what you would call a slacker.  My wife goes to work, recruiting and eventually selling homes and school tuition and insurance, etcetera—to potential and ultimately; Ones residents.  I’m just a guy with a gift of gab, who has dinner parties, pajama parties, makeup parties; vitamin, health and wellness parties.  I give away wine and a discount book to new homeowners.  I hold team meetings in our Welcome house—model home for those of you wondering what the hell a welcome house was. 

                I managed to not only trick the system.  I beat that son of a bitch, swept the weeping mother off of her feet and fucked every one of her fantasies over beautifully hued sunrises and sunsets.  If it weren’t for this show you wonderful people are filming, I’d be balls deep in my woman, who should be home from her open house in the next few minutes.  I’m just a lucky hombre, I guess.

                Some of us, on the other hand—well—

                “Well, what?”

                “Perhaps a bit more than your camera lens would want to shine pixels upon, my friend.”

                “How so?” 

                “Let’s just say this:  some of us are satisfied with being free; while others find freedom absolutely frightening.  I wake up every morning, smelling Mrs. Baker’s treats; but I know Mrs. Baker bakes because it’s the only smell her husband stops for.  And that her pool boy loves banana bread muffins, because it’s the only time of year that she makes them—summertime. 

                Having access and a certain level of success or fortune; usually, these things mean that you’re pretty much disconnected from even the most basic and foundational things.  You don’t know how to hold your own crying baby; you don’t know that the whole milk has the red cap; the skim milk, light blue. That people don’t even drink cow’s milk anymore, but prefer almond milk. 

                What society deems success merely makes one ugly—facts of life.  Freedom is a right.  Enjoying it; isn’t, necessarily.  In fact, I’d argue that freedom is either heaven or hell.

[basquiatyoung]

My brethren BiggieHitchcock FlashGod

[basquiatyoung]

ArtGazing

[basquiatyoung]

[positivestreet]

[antigonick]

Bless you as often as the hours have been endless to me while you were gone

Sappho, Fragments (tr. by Mary Barnard)

[basquiatyoung]

Remission Mission

The bottle shatters mid-flight and lands as diamonds and pieces of glitter. Rum is spilled on his sneakers and he kneels over the shards of emeralds. When the new moon hits a summer’s dream the night is special…the act produces nary a drop of blood.

 He’d grown weary of walking down paths that have only lead to pain, which begets more pain for the sake of or despite, said pain. He prayed for rain to wash away the deep stains of cynicism and disdain, which had to this point far too long muddied up his brain. He asked for change, asked for range and something new he could call the same. He asked amidst the chaos for a slice of sane.

 The ocean mixes with the exhalation of the trees lining blocks of Brooklyn where they’d swore nothing green would ever grow producing an aroma akin to freedom. The pavement glitters with the constellations of a million dreams. Cars are silent as they hover inches off the streets. Their lights make shadows dance nocturne waltzes against the walls of brownstones, as they pass they take outlines of graffiti for partners.

 He lifts his right knee and feels more sober than one should after a fifth of whiskey, his left hand digs around for a half smoked box pack of cigarettes as the feeling of freedom dissipates. There’s something perverse about lighting a cigarette in his present situation yet he can’t help himself. He rises with his left foot lights it.

 His subconscious mummers something about a 12-hour shift and another thing about the world performing fellatio on his crusty dick; he pulls out the box of cigarettes and the periphery of his auditory field picks up a soft rustle…almost like paper…falling out of his pocket. He sits on the stoop and plays Duke’s slowest on repeat. The time reads 4:22 AM.

 “This is 1010 wins, you give us 22 minutes, we give you the world! This is Judy DeAngelis. Traffic and weather on the ones--”

 The sun shines through a fog and a drum circle has moved into his temple shaking with a pain that throbs to his very marrow. Musky heat mixed with the smell of a thousand leftovers long since forgotten rises from the floor, by his estimations it’s noon. He regains an inkling of clarity on the wood floor.   

 “—Pick three numbers are 8, 9, 6.”

 As Judy reads off the numbers in her customary, cheery, matter of fact fashion…a shiver runs up his spine.

 Those are the number he usually; last night—he stopped for

 “The fucking lotto ticket!”

[basquiatyoung]

Burnside Avenue Bound

She calls him, not with words but with her eyes, between sighs…across the train. Her energy flows down like warm rain, in distinct and similar waves. Let me tell you she’s adorned with all that heaven could bestow to make her amiable to the five senses; and on some level, maybe the 7th. A slice of heaven. She wears boots that come up to her knees, natural leather, green panty hose and a skirt that stops on the right part of her thighs. Her coat drapes across her lap and there’s a green turtle neck beneath a thin denim vest. He’s most intrigued by the orange scarf hiding her neck.

He looks at her, but not just as a passing stranger with whom there’d be a pleasant exchange carried across a wagon of this 1970’s steel horse.

He really looks at her.

He can’t help but think that there was more than causality at play here. He takes the opportunity; there’s an open seat. He sits down and his imagination takes him to places must softer, and nicer, and light than this subterranean gerbil mover. The routine is suspended.

She’s never felt energy so intense.

She’s over come.

She feels as if standing on the edge of a volcano. She feels him subduing, toning it down if you will. So she calls out to him again, and he answers her call. He’s willing to say hello, and only hello. And yet she feels the lava burbling beneath the surface. She says take me; take me right here on this train with all of these people watching. Take all that I have for that is all that I have to give but together we can spark up the universe.

He longs to feel something more than the tedium and the hum-fucking drum. He wants to feel the thrust of the twinjets for mere moments defying gravity, taking him to the beaches of his country; where the water’s always warm and you can see your feet.

At this moment though, she’s sweeter than dulce de leche; hotter than the high noon sun.

Most people don’t notice and most people don’t care to. But they claw at each other and bite each other until it became obvious to her that there’s no making him submit. No quit in him.

She lets her self be taken even though she said she’d surrendered moments before because only now does she learn he’s worthy. Seconds turn to centuries and minutes to millennia. There’s a gust of wind that runs through the cabin.

Everyone that slept is awake.

As they come up on Bowling Green, he finally speaks. The words are meaningless and they feel more like the chitchat that two people have as they smoke that one cigarette; the one that follows after making casualties of sheets and pillows.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” She responded, meekly and cynically.

“How are you?”

“It’s so hot in here.”

“So where are you getting off?”

“Soon…Maybe I already did.”

“Huh?”

“Maybe I missed my stop.”

“I see…”

“Listen, I’m usually kind of shy. But fuck it, what’s up? I want to take you out, when are you free. I mean, really free.”There’s a pause; after some thought, she chuckles. She removes her jacket only to reveal a belly that’s about 3 months from bursting.

“Oh.”

He goes into his notebook and makes a fan out of a page he rips out. He pages are sown in; there are ripples in the fan. He hands her the fan.

“Aw, that’s so sweet.”

They approach Union Square, and he grabs his book bag. Out of the corner of his eye he notices her undoing the fan. His heart breaks as he sees that she sees there’s no phone number written on it, no name or trace. Only blue lines, imaginary confines. His right foot hesitates on hitting the platform, and even though he forgets her with the last swig of that first cup of coffee…

A part of her remains.

©BasquiatYoung 2015

[basquiatyoung]

“To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.” Friedrich Nietzsche

They highest calling that a human being can undertake is to heal. Stand outside; look at any corner, go to any train station, hang some newspapers on the wall and throw a dart, scroll through any feed, tap in anywhere, check in everywhere; close your eyes, take a globe and spit it upon it’s axis, point your finger anywhere and you’ll be guaranteed to find an opportunity in which to heal. 

Either one will have a potion that another desperately needs or one will find an antidote with which to expel the poison.

How does healing begin? It begins in the same plane which requires the healing. Prayer, knowledge, wisdom, cyphers, counseling, meditation, transmutation, mythology, laughter, tears, joy, exercise, tutoring, teaching, art, engineering, love, sex, experiences, lessons. 

All things are portals. 

Welcome. 

Namaste

Zechariah 11-15