HiramDiaz• Show poetry

"It was ten in the morning and I was drinking whiskey from a flask my grandfather gave me five years ago. No more burnt spoons. No more powdered baggies. I lit a cigarette. I walked over to the window. I drew the curtains open half an inch with my forefinger. I gazed out over the motel parking lot and blew smoke over my shoulder. I watched the rain drench them as they hauled canvas suitcases down the splintery white stairs, thrusting the ravaged luggage into their 76’ Nova’s trunk once they reached the bottom, their brows furrowed, their eyes squinting, their mouths opening and closing as if they were trying to swallow the torrent. I struggled to make out their words but I was standing too close to the glass; I tried to hold my breath but the glass still grew foggy. It was too cold, too windy; the window trembled and began to sweat. The phone rang. I answered. It was her. She spoke to me and said she couldn’t help; she had her own problems. “It will work out in the end,” she said, empathizing by relaying her financial problems to me. I listened; with people like that, people fishing for souls, searching for information to leak out in their weekly prayer meeting, all that you can do is listen. You have to be careful with what you say because that Lord of theirs has a reputation for being a busybody. I gently took swigs from the flask while she prayed, but the whiskey was dense, its swooshing rang hollowly over the handset. She must’ve not heard the noise; she continued to preach. I lost interest. I hung up. That was all.
Shag carpeting, walls stained with elliptical patches of brown, furniture bolted to the rotting wood beneath both, I couldn’t find a spot to hide it, so I put it in my boot. It was eleven o’clock and the rain hadn’t let up, but the clouds were slowly pushing themselves over the horizon. I decided to take a walk. I wasn’t worried. I had no reason to be; they left and took everything with them: the egg-crate Styrofoam insulation, the microphones, the headsets, the monitors, and the diversion, the kid who would perpetually throw tiny stones at my window. I never said a thing. I knew what he was doing. Everyday, around three o’clock, two hours prior to their return home, he’d stand right where they stood minutes ago as they packed bundles of useless shit into their rusting manila trunk, meticulously choosing stones from the driveway and slinging them up at my window. I never said a word. I didn’t think anything of it. He would stand there listlessly slinging stones at me. He never said a word either.
I put on my jacket. I searched for my keys. I put on my cap, put the flask in my pocket and found my keys. I unlocked the door and looked behind me, just to make sure, turned the lights off, lit a cigarette, walked out, closed the door behind me and let the rain pelt me for the first time in three years."

-elija blaes, from Forme

myspace anyone?

http://www.myspace.com/a_nihilistic_overture

keep on keeping on.