Archive for January, 2008

Bullet Chaser

Posted in adventure, art, poetry on January 31, 2008 by staticity

Click. Click. pow.

And it’s off, running and soaring as fast as it can through the air. It’s slicing images of oxygen with chemical defiance as it hits my neck.  Before it breaks, it slows to a mile per  2 hours. It’s so slow I blink a few times before seeing it about to strike me. Bang. And there it goes, speeding up and shoots me fat in the neck.

Second spit it hits the bullet releases deadly sensations through out me. Trickling down my toes I am to chase the wind. Running faster than rouge could carry me, I fall in and out of the red zone as I collapse into a bus station. Away I exit into the streets and await for my new dream chasing bullet explosions.

I’ve been hit 8 times before, but this time it’s a new feeling. I’m wounded, but not out. I have two options: die. or run. Off I’m going to race. Through bus stations, streets, cities and states. I don’t know where I’ll end up or what I’ll be doing, but I have a hunch it won’t be the last time I chase bullets.


Shiny People

Posted in adventure, friends, interactions, Philadelphia, philly, relationships on January 24, 2008 by staticity

Jessica and I have been hanging out more these days. Today I met her in Queen Village at a place called The Red Hook. A coffee shop with large windows and a lot of light. We sat on a retro, green, sofa while we read a Philadelphia magazine and drank coffee. I complimented the woman behind the counter on her backless shirt. A kind of compliment that Jessica would have made. Smiling in a flirtatious way we held our shoulders back and walked fast toward Center City.

Chain smoking we made it to the Planned Parenthood building a few minutes too late. Closed. My shot at the morning after pill has been denied. I don’t think I’m pregnant, but now I’ll have to wait until I can take a test. These types of things always make me nervous.

Jessica told me little jess sent her a plane ticket for her 21st birthday out to LA so she could visit. She’s excited and wants to sit in at Little Jess’s work and watch the porn business spin into action. They’re going to a few clubs since she’s old enough now. I told her to make sure and take lots of pictures.

She said Shakti was very nervous when she came up. They were walking around on our block when two ghetto guys approached them and asked them if they wanted to go to a party. Shakti was scared, but Jessica handled it with ease. She’s good at standing tough in nervous situations. Nothing like that ever happens in Charlottesville. Shakti’s very pretentious. She likes to talk about fashionable poets from the 19th century and drink tea with perfect posture. She’s more conservative than she thinks. The city would eat her alive.

The glitter in her body is what attracts people. Jessica has it too. Something shiny and mysterious that comes out loud from their eyes. Sparkling so bright that people can see it from a mile away.  They talk about astrology, haunted houses, herbal tinctures and cultural mysteries that are half believable and half magic. They are very feminate in a loud presence. Tough victims. Shakti’s eyebrows curl upward in a ‘you’ve hurt me’ way that catches people into sympathy where as Jessica is more flirtatious. Swirling like smoke they trickle soft through people’s eyes.

I’ve been called the quiet mysterious type. I don’t talk loud and my words aren’t tough or interesting. Magic for me comes out too blunt and accidental. As if I’m stumbling through mistakes that seem to fall into place in unusual circumstances. I sit quietly, usually curled into my thoughts with rounded shoulders to protect me from something cold and expected.  You can’t see me a mile away and my dark clothes make me invisible. A hopeful invisibility that comes with imaginary justice. I pretend to glide through town in scarves and boots, hovering close to windows so I can people watch. Waiting to find those people that glitter over me so I can sit and stare in awe.

Today I was with the shiny. Our reflections bounced off one another and for a second, there were no accidental circumstances.


Posted in adventure, family, interactions, life, Philadelphia, philly on January 24, 2008 by staticity

The city buildings outside of Dad’s suave hotel of sophistication, screamed luxury. I didn’t think they went so high. City people don’t look up. They look far past the street and into several blocks down. Never stopping. Up there, it was like we were above everything. The working people on their computers in the offices across the street still had their lights blaring florescent. It was just getting dark, but it doesn’t matter when windows are stars and stars are imaginary.

I gazed a thousand miles away at his New York Times that he had sent to the room. The king sized bed with bland, white, sheets matching the walls and hotel art stood blankly staring back at me. Mahogany wooden shelves and dressers with his fancy looking cell phone and keys placed on top. The black suitcase was walked up to our room by a black door man all-too-eager to open the door. I couldn’t help wondering if these were the people on our block. The ones people could buy ten dollars worth of dope from. The cologne said no.

Dad walks in an air of happy oblivion. So far away from what really goes on in skanktown basements of night crawling cities. He likes it that way. Pillow Chocolates and fancy dining with taxi’s as far as the eye can see.

“You like this camera?” I smile proudly, pulling out an expensive looking, tiny, digital camera from a hidden pocket. “I found it in the back of a cab one night.”

“Oh yes, that’s the exact model I was thinking of buying.”

I remembered last years Christmas present I saved for him. A digital camera. I said nothing as we were miles away in room 903.

A day in the life of….

Posted in adventure, gentrification, grunge, hipster, interactions, Philadelphia, philly, sex on January 15, 2008 by staticity

I hear the way he hammers out words on his keyboard. Much in the same way one would on an antique type writer. The mystery lies facing him in a world of secrecy. Adventures of tired blankets and surprise sex perhaps. Maybe a letter to his lonely mother from twenty hours away. He sits hunched over with the beloved ash tray like a pet that always follows.

Sometimes I think he’s too quiet. A boy with his mind shouldn’t sit in too much silence. It floods our room until it’s too much to see. Creeping through the crack below the door- it dances down the hall. Into the living room and filling the entire house with a strange type of silent curiosity. White. With all the colors constricted into a bland sheet of paper. Hammering away at it until the secrecy is unfolded online.

Today we were adventurers. New friends for an afternoon.

-One with a suitcase filled with stolen goods from the magic shop.
-Another was a roommate with a Jewish afro as tall as the brothers johnson.
-The third was a feminate black man by the name of Gum Drops.

They all had on hats out of the 1940s.  Complete with checkered jackets made of tweed and brown loafers. We went to a gentrifying coffee shop where people of the same attire read the papers with a look of concern folding in their eyebrows. Let Me Tell You a little something about those democratics. Worry  has lept so far down their media loved throats that fear has become a trend far worse than the common conservative.

We bumped into Erick and Stephanie planning a futuristic ice skating trip to Penns Landing. Conversation floated to childrens cinnema and ET and Star Wars. Jobs were discussed as a friend of a friend got gyped on his pay check. A common occurance.

We then strolled in a pack of pale dressed bougie’s back to our humble abode on Washington Ave.  I could feel the eyes lurking behind section 8 buildings as we tried to hide our rich shame from catching up.  Gentrification Association. And we WERE the neighborhood watch.
We returned to the living room with a mysterious wooden coffee table newly purchased a few days ago. Lit incense and talked about the shopping cart people. People we didn’t know who had slept on our couches the night before. People with attitudes. People with friends. Fight at bars. Music. Records. Comedy.

After a conspiracy movie on what Really happened on 9/11 I walked brisk to the questionable Chinese Food store and bought my humble 2.75 cents cheese burger. Nic and I cleaned and took a shower.

I laughed as he serenaded me with his dancing. Not ashamed of our bodies underwater. Unshaven legs. I bent down to kiss him and found his voice stutter to groan from laughter to pleasure. The Silence had been broken.

art studio

Posted in art, odd, Philadelphia, philly on January 12, 2008 by staticity

I visited an art studio by a girl named Deadra. She uses bubble wrap and plastic with spray paint to create original pieces of art.  Here is one example:


Stray Kids

Posted in Uncategorized on January 11, 2008 by staticity

I saw a boy yesterday, sitting on the curb eating a lollipop. The neighbors seemed to give little attention to him for two in the afternoon. I wondered if school had let out early. A man in his twenties was walking door to door, he must have caught the little boys attention. He left his curb and started to follow the man. Hesitantly at first, but then almost with a skip of jolly inclination.

“Do you know who the Ghost busters are?” He asked with enthusiasm.
The man shook his head, glancing around for a parent in sight.
“Are you a Ghost Buster? You look like one. Is that why you’re going to everyone’s house? To make sure they don’t have any ghosts?”
“No, I work for the post office.” The man smiled awkwardly.
The little boy did not believe this. “I think I have a ghost. Mama just yells at me when I tell her, but she doesn’t know.”
“Do you think it’s invisible?” The man asked.
“No. I see it sometimes. It races from under my bed to out the window when it gets really really late at night.”
“What do you do about it?”
“I scream. But now that you’re here, you can fight it for me.” The little boy looked up at him with a strange sort of hope glittering from inside his eyes.
“I don’t have my equipment.” The man finally said.
“That’s okay. You’re bigger than me. Maybe you could come over for a slumber party.”

I watched as the little boy followed the postal worker down the block. With each door the postal worker knocked on, the people seemed to over look the little boy. It was as if they must have known him to do this quite often. Maybe like a stray dog that they all feed every now and again to keep him full.
The postal worker got to the end of 7th street and looked down to the future of row houses to come.
“Little man, I have to go now. I’ve got a lot more work to do.” I could hear him as he squatted down to the height of the little nose pointed up.
“I can follow you. We could be friends.”
“No, little man. You should stay on your block. Your mom might start to wonder.”
“It’s okay.”
The man gave him a little smile and shifted the mail bag onto his right shoulder. He waved and then disappeared further down the street.
Little boys shouldn’t be so eager to talk to strangers. I watched him as he mosied back to his stoop, slumped along the steps with another lollipop. Waiting for the Ghost busters.


Posted in adventure, hipster, life, Philadelphia, philly on January 8, 2008 by staticity

The air was striking close to seventy degrees as I sat sipping a two dollar glass bottle of diet coke. Second street coffee shop proved on the verge of popularity. A woman dressed in fancy boots and a black dress with red collar strolled in for a latte. She had black hair and bright red lipstick painted on like romance flooding an overexposed mouth. Her two men trailed behind her in equally fashionable attire.  Perhaps she was on her lunch break from working at an art gallery somewhere a few blocks North of grunge.

I was slung over a summer chair enjoying the fresh cigarette smoke filtering out of a cheap pack of 3.74 cents. Draped arms and crossed legs, I felt rich inside a gigantic jacket.  Perhaps I’ll just glance through this free magazine as I pretend to be on lunch break too.  I thumbed through the future as my friend gazed off into the distance. Messy blond pig tails and jeans that frayed around the edges. She looked a bit out of place, as if stumbling through thoughts in one of those graceful trances where stumbling is dancing in disguise.

“Do you always stumble through the door?” A man with messy facial hair had asked me the night before last.

It’s as if everything I do is half by mistake and half by constant thought. The kind that wraps me up in it until every detail is faulted through the expectation of the next. My legs lingering mysteriously through the starch of black jeans that need to be washed.

Something about messy beginnings  to graceful afternoons reminded me of the sunny seventy degrees. If only it would stay this way forever…. but ladies from all over are slithering their way back to work.