A small sound was buzzing so light, yet so clear,
Becoming a tune as Snazy approached near,
The old busted bar with the dim, blinking sign,
Some song there was playing, one hard to define.
A voice with a pitch so pure, loud, and new,
Like a crack in the silence, a sudden breakthrough.
She glanced at the window and right there she saw,
The sweet southern cowboy, eyes closed, singing tall.
But before she could move, the man looked up to see,
Two bright gleaming eyes staring back from Snazy.
The butterflies jumped in her stomach that turned,
Right upside down for the man whom she yearned.
Her feet moved so fast without thought, she then ran,
Away from the bar, far away from the man.
"How embarrassing!" Snazy shouted out to the sky,
But her smile grew bigger without quite knowing why.
A glimpse of the sun, peaking out from behind,
The usual grey clouds that she grew to not mind,
Made her realize how fast her heart skipped a beat,
For that country boy singer she was dying to meet!
She sat in the diner, her thoughts scattered far,
After ordering her blueberry pancake she saw,
A man crouched and lonely on the bench right outside,
She noticed his weakness, his hunger that cried,
From beneath the dark shadows that set on his face,
Something had to be done in order to replace,
The emptiness lurking above and beneath,
The man filled with nothing but deep sighs of grief.
In half of a moment she walked out the door,
Giving food to the homeless man, needing it more.
"I overlook all the things that I have here,
Taking good life for granted, not facing my fear,
A great opportunity to see what could be,
I can't run away from a true love story."
So she turned right around and thought it all through,
Following her heart toward the love that she knew.
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Charlie woke up to his head throbbing and the noises of Ms. Wong banging pots and pans. He let out an enormous sigh, and then he started to pick the pieces of dried blood from his straight black hair.
"You fall Charlie?" Ms. Wong asked.
"Yeah, I fell onto a curb last night. I'm okay now though. How are you?" Charlie said.
"Good Good. You get to work okay?" she said.
"Alright. I got it," he said.
Charlie busted his ass all day making ungodly amounts of Sesame Chicken and Stir-Fried rice. When he was on his break, he stepped outside to have a cigarette. As he happily puffed away on his cancer stick he noticed a strange black van drive past twice in a row. Charlie would have been more alarmed but these days nothing really seemed normal. He couldn't stop thinking about his mom, why did all these weird things keep happening to him?
His head hurt now. He felt light headed, and stumbled to the nearest corner store to buy a forty. Liquor could usually make the pain go away, and if that couldn't help, there was always some weed. He chugged the crisp Colt 45 down in three big gulps. He felt better now and walked back into work.
When he finished cleaning up the store, he gathered up his cash that he kept in that old coffee can and stepped out. It started to sleet, but Charlie welcomed the harsh weather cause it kept the god damn police busy. He needed about 30 spray paint cans to complete the job, but first he needed to check out the warehouse to see where he could throw up the art.
As soon as Charlie got to the warehouse he knew where he would do it. There was an entire wall untouched by the small time artists, and he knew what colors he wanted. The sunlight would hit the wall just right at dusk, and the red and white roses would look very choice against the bland brown the warehouse was painted. Charlie quickly sketched out the plans for his masterpiece and was surprised when his sketch book started to get wet. He soon realized that he was crying because of his mother, and he let the tears flow.
Then he rose to his feet, and started walking towards the hardware store in the next town over to get his paint. He felt a strange quiver come over him as he passed a young lady sitting on a bench. It was none other than Snazzy Filazy, a sweet girl that frequented the Chinese place. But when he looked into her face, her eyes were crying blood. Streams of hot, red blood streamed down her face, and she looked deep into his eyes.
"Your mother misses you Charlie, make haste, don't forget your mission," she said.
"Holy fucking shit!" Charlie screamed, and before Snazzy could react Charlie was three blocks away.
"Well gosh, what was his problem?" Snazzy said. She, of course, was not crying blood.
Charlie stopped running and leaned against a building while he caught his breath. He knew these images wouldn't stop until he completed the mission. He straightened up, brushed off his clothes, and got back on the road to the hardware store.
The sun was setting now, and Charlie couldn't help but notice the sky's blood red color. Like the whole world was bleeding. He knew what he had to do.
"Flicker, flicker, the lights always flicker."
"Never, never, shall I sing, never."
"OK, OK, my lovely sweet babe, OK."
A big flashing neon sign reading "WHAT THE HELL?" flickered in Naublus' mind. Consequently, he veiled his posied scalp so that the radiation didn't reach the outside world. You see, the outside world is plotting against him. He never knows when they'll pull his big toe out or make his eyeball into jewelry. Oh, how he feared the use of his body parts! Of course, the material with which he covered them was newspaper, old, yellowed newspaper. On his feet, a pristine Caribbean beach with cannibals. On his head, a 95-year-old Holocaust survivor doing aerobics in a pink sports bra. (Naublus loved sports bras -- he stole one three years before, and he's never taken it off since). On his left hand, an advertisement for men's shaving razors. On his right, Christy Brinkley advertising the Make-A-Wish Foundation.
Naublus was proud of his attire. He thought it a testament to his creativity and eclectic taste in aesthetics. Naublus remembered the temple frescoes of his native land. The forests seemed to extend their arms to embrace him. The dizzying patterns reminded him of his mother, and the shiny turquoises, burgundies, and terra cotas matched the sprightly movement of his feet.
Naublus liked to spin in place. Often, in his corner of the SMARTA station, he would spin uncontrollably constantly yelling, "Wassup! Wassup! Wassup! Wassup!" to passers-by. The passengers thought him a mentally-ill man from the 3rd century. Naublus kept on spinning regardless. "Wassup! Wassup! Wassup! Wassup!" As he spun, always with his left foot planted, he never got dizzy and flailed his arms up and down.
It was 5:45 p.m. Rush hour. The swarm of squirrels invaded Naublus' station, nobody looking to the side, everybody focuses on the prize -- where they needed to be next. It was quite a prize, but Naublus didn't get that. Like a solo autumn leaf, twenty-something year-old girl skipped to Naublus corner, grabbing his hands to strike a waltz pose. She joined him in his spinning. She sang, dazed, "It's love! It's love! It's love! It's love!" She filled the half-beat that Naublus "wassup's" left blank.
"WHAT THE HELL?" Naublus mind flickered, as street lights do in the apocalypse. This girl, naive as a moth, crushed his solitude, stained it, made it bleed. It was a new life for Naublus. People could in fact exist.
Snazy and Naublus spun until the end of time.
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