Punchdrunk

You and me and the time we got so drunk on wine at that little bar tucked away in the narrowly dank alley somewhere between Jasper and one hundred and second, when the manager said “please do, stay, let’s drink and smoke and talk the night away,” and you said yes and I said yes and he locked the door, clicking the “open” sign closed, and soon it was well into early morning light, eighty dollar bottles fallen from shelves and spilled over pretty lips laughing when the manager said “hey we should smoke this, hm?” and you said yes and I said yes and the room spun while the floor fell away and soon you were high up on a table stomping feet, bellowing battle cries: “you think the active denial system will be used only for the purposes intended, and that their effects will generally be less harmful than more directly lethal devices, but you’re wrong!” and “Facebook is Big Brother cleverly disguised as games and social niceties when in fact it’s stealing your personal security, destroying your identity!” and “The war will kill us all!” and the manager and me, we laughed in polite awkwardness when he looked at me and whispered “has it kicked in yet, what we smoked?” but before I could answer, you and me, we were running, running, running down the narrowly dank alley escaping the shadowed creatures of our imaginations when we found ourselves locked up tight in your studio, four deadbolts on a door that didn’t meet the ceiling, the gaping hole between wall and roof lost on the irony of us, paranoid and staring at paint spilled, your unfinished canvases with strange eyes staring, nibbling crackers nervously when I called my dad, my dad of encyclopedic drug knowledge,  and said: “what is this, this stuff that we’re on?” and he laughed a big belly trucker laugh reminiscent of all those times he did all those drugs and said: “go home, lock the door, close the blinds, drink some tea, put on a record and try to sleep it off, it will all pass, it will, and you’ll be fine,” so we snuck out of your studio just when the sun peaked its red eye over the crescent of downtown on a Tuesday, high-rise glass glaring sunrise, and we took the long way around, through alleyways and parkways and sideways walkways and when we got to my house my cat, dapperly dressed in a scarf and wool cap, tapping a black shoe-clad toe on sparkling linoleum said: “welcome home, I’m famished” and we collapsed in a laugh pile until I suddenly, astonishingly remembered Facebook was deftly destroying my identity while silly streaks of happy tears rolled down my cheeks and I thought of who I was on there, and how I was perceived out there, and who was looking at the me I was somewhere intangible and all the things I said in there floating around like fireflies let loose from a jar on a summer night, and I rolled over you – still giggle-slumped on the floor – and rushed to the computer and, in four quick clicks, deleted my account…

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and woke up, face down on the kitchen table wearing one shoe, finger still sitting trigger-happy on the mouse, an email reading “are you sure you wanted to delete your account? Reactivate your account now by clicking here” and I did, and I did, and I did, even though the number one reason, Facebook said, for deleting an account was peer pressure, but the pressure in my head was bigger and my cat was still wearing that hat and it was a day or two before I said to you: “you and me, I don’t think we should do that again anytime soon.”

xoxo,
M.L. H’art

Eleven Syllable Escape.

Passing you by – your feet sinking deep into downtown pavement, eyes fixed to shell toed shoes counting careful steps – I barely recognize you.

Thin hair drops in limp lines from scalp to shoulder, spreading greys steal strawberry shine from lengthy locks, locks which used to compete with the sun. Your mouth is exploited by sad lines, deep imprinted tears in sallow skin dyed the color of nicotine. Matte mouse eyes skitter about tired lids, the whites yellow, the yellow fissured with splinters of bloodshot stress.

You’ve widened since I saw you last, hips a spill of squishy surplus, button and jeans fighting to stay together.

Turning, wizened fingers wrapped in paper thin skin reaching for my shoulder, your mouth a cracked red raw O, you say: hullo, girl. How’s your pretty life?

A sideswept chasse and I miss your grip, my hesitant smile a defensive apology for your attempted touch.

Again, you say: how’s your pretty life?

I scrunch my eyes, look you over, try to find the you I knew way back when you used to smile and shine, your packaging still smooth and store-front sexy, your laugh like rushing water, gurgling, bubbling.

Good, happy: I say.

Fidgeting hands smooth a hand-knit tunic over threadbare jeans as you chuckle, the sound of desperation like wheezing sand paper. Yeah, you say. Me too.

You flick a fired butt, the ember grazing paper skin – a quick ignition close to setting you aflame, your widened rack a torch.

Awkward pause, a beat too long, and I think of all the things I’d like to say:

Remember when we sat up all night and laughed until the moonlight cracked to let the dawn in?

Remember sitting on the kitchen floor in the first apartment we shared, eating spaghetti off one green cracked plate, red sauce splashing linoleum only we were in charge of cleaning?

Remember the friends, the drinks, the parties, the fun, the fun, the fun – the fun that poured so easily out of you, the unstoppable, beautiful fun?

Standing, your shoulders a horse shoe slump, I cannot find the you I knew way back when; the hardened turtle shell is hiding the you who used to be and so I don’t say the things I’d like, but instead say:

Great. Okay, then. Was nice to see you. Take care!

Faux enthusiasm, an eleven syllable escape and you’re gone from my memory again.

xoxo

M.L. H’art

Again.

I wake up in last night’s clothes, sticky with sleep, on the living room floor again; staring at the stained stucco roof of the old building where I’ve planted my urban life roots, I feel that familiar pang of regret start to turn my tummy, a tumble dry cycle of jumbled emotions slicked with the hangover grease of one glass too many.

The early morning sun streaks the tasks of another workaday week across the wall – an hour and I’m late again; a grumble escaping cracked lips, I drag my wrinkled jeans, my addict genes, down the hall to the bathroom stall and wash away last night, astringently cold water making make-up heavy eyes sting black tears.

Stepping out of last night’s tired clothes, I pull up today’s panties, pink with shame, but forget to change my socks again; a quick glance in the mirror and my habits are an obvious expression: red nose, bagged eyes, ruddy cheeks, creased forehead.

Checking my wallet waiting in line for a dose of wake-me-up, I count the cash left over and am thankful I didn’t spend it all again; fumbling with the creamer and the sugar and the headache, I nearly miss the bus and spill medium roast all over the hand I forgot to wash the bar stamp off of before leaving the house.

Licking ink and coffee off the backhanded skin that slapped me with the realization I’m too old for this shit, I plough into a blue shaded bus seat and catch the reflection of a little girl growing the worn lines of absent memory and feel that old familiar sting sneak up the length of my oesophagus again; bitter bile biting at my throat, I choke it back and close heavy eyes and silently count the stops until I arrive at work – just on time, but not all there.

The click-clack of a life wasted on an ergonomically adjustable keyboard sets the tempo of a day behind the desk again; the formulaic process divided into billable hours when, at the end of the day, I go home, hit the bottle back and start all over – again.

xoxo,

M.L. H’art

In Somnolent.

Holding sleep in the palm of my hand, I pull closed tired joints, each knuckle choking one more hour.

A hint of night light paints dancing wolves on white walls – the snarling silhouetted pack surging forward, pulling back: a sympatric shimmy, tree leaves making me believe I’m being hunted.

A sway in starlight and the man enters my room. He’s been here before, the stench of his dark trench coat a familiarly sticky scent of dank earth and rusted blood and dried skin.

The shadow bird perched on the closet door quavers: he has a knife, little girl. Be careful, little girl.

Heart knocking ribs, crouching under covers, arms clamped to wobbly knees, eyes pressed closed, sharp blows of breath heave heavy lungs – puffing away shadow puppets playing amygdala tricks.

A negotiation between conscience and imagination, the wolves retreat and the bird stops singing but the man, the man draws his blade. Refulgent metal catching moonlight, his silver sharp tongue licks slick shank.

On theatre walls of bedroom late, drips of backlit blood run a slippery wash over white paint, soak into threaded carpet, rise past dusted baseboards, spill over well-worn chair covers, splash into dresser drawers ajar, creep to the edge of the bed and, lapping at bare phobic toes curled, stain sheets, a blossoming claret bloom spreading over pillow shams, dying nightgown hem.

It’s been days since I last slept.

xoxo,

M.L. H’art