Sleeping Calendars

Time is an uncontrollable worry for loss of memory; aging is inept. Fact being if I am not the representation of a number for identification I will be scrutinized. I constantly review myself for a final test.

This cycle I am unaccustomed will revolve cassettes through a blasted notion; if one is empty we will be spared a moment, if one is false we will be deceived, if one is loaded we will be made an example, if one is defunct we will be dreadful anticipation, if one is functioning we will be targeted, if one misses the target for injury we will be dysfunctional. Always waiting, we stare into the barrel of a gun simultaneously without caution or discretion for metallic foreign objects.

Any moment we may find ourselves in the position of lawlessness; the possibility is innumerable for a degrading society. We question behavior leading to disrespectful suspicion and no longer respect privacy. Anarchy is inevitable and readily available for citizens of any nation.

"How will we know it worked?"

"When everything appears to be fine, as if nothing happened."

"People will keep going even if..."

"To save face..."

"What's behind the mask?"

"Us..."

The Wishing Tree is an apparition solid to touch and I am carrying a piece of cardboard paper cut from a case of Big Hit incense. I am an indescribable emotion between embarrassment and shame bordering sorrowful hopelessness; I feel this way while I write the end of this sentence. Scrapped inside a slit of burrowing crack I wonder if the broken heart Genie ever found my black marker.

Our magistrate informs us few people receive marriage certificates stamped with official approval; most are nodded for ceremonial purposes but only select couples from sincere observation are chosen to be treasures of sacrament.

"We understand..."

I am walking inside of my Beau's hands; eternity beckons us to turn around. A group of men and women haunted by shadows of disappointment amongst severed vows looks upon us with absolute determination; they are aware of what will become of us while we kiss naivete's wounds.

"Did you prepare promises?"

"She is my promise."

"He is mine."

"Oh...will anybody else be attending?"

"All of you will be fine."

"Very well as you both wish; where are your rings?"

"Is it that important?"

I spit blood into Chester's right eye; this particular organ infuriates me.

"Why am I bleeding?"

"You're a fighter."

"Fuck you cunt."

Sprayed dots of crimson cover him from head to shoulders; I despise him more than pain.

"Oh..."

Statures of contemplation is a line of dead men grinning.

"Egyptian masonic symbols for eternal mates..."

"Is it really?"

"You didn't know?"

"He found the figure inside a book from Oxford."

"She found the symbol from an astrological parlor in Edinburgh."

"You are the arrow and she is the teardrop......?"

I wonder what calender passed while I lay in a dream of many terrible figures I task from an elusive ego; the couch is a curl for this person I am and am not.

"I'm robbing you bitch!"

"I'm robbing you too."

"What do I got to lose?"

"Your life."

Uncle Moe is mumbling profusely, wailing his arms in the air; there is no relief. I watch him through a wide scape scenery of morbid box vans, neighbors holding hands, women chanting an exit for a known rapist, children gazing into his wide eyed gaping face acknowledging 'that was him', Diesel on his motorcycle smoking a cigarette, You Know Who shaking his head for the appearance of innocence; somebody is watching me, nevertheless I am without regret.

"Are you nervous?"

"I am enthusiastic to be here."

"This is quite a boring place; this is church..."

"I am here with my husband."

"Not yet my dear. You are here with your Beau."

"He will always be my Beau."

"He will always be your husband as well."

"Are you nervous?"

"Should I be..."

"You are here without a lawyer."

"So are you..."

"That man is dead."

"Are you sure?"

"I checked. He's out of here!"

"You seem excited."

"Phew!"

"You are relieved."

"God damn!"

"You are crying."

"You don't know what you did."

"You don't either."

"So that's your store eh?"

"Are you from Canada?"

"Yes I am."

"Where?"

"Nova Scotia..."

"Do you know what the name means?"

"No I always wondered."

"Scorned by a star..."

"Why is that?"

"The elevation is result of a fallen star burning the surface."

"Is that what you did to that man?"

"He is not from Nova Scotia."

"Where was he from?"

"You tell me; you seem to know a lot about him."

"Texas..."

Libra convinces investigators to leave the store while customers curse at their presence; they are always welcome however they are not purchasing anything.

"We will have Red Ginseng caplets available shortly."

"What do those do?"

"Link to capillaries in the brain to enhance blood flow."

"What happens then?"

"Alertness, awareness, improved energy..."

"Better than coffee?"

"Yes and cost efficient."

"Will you give us a free sample?"

"I will give you each one caplet if you do me a favor."

"What is that?"

"Guard the store until the sun rises."

"You that worried?"

"Your presence will show you care and people will be less likely to..."

"Hate us?"

"It is said to be an aphrodisiac as well..."

"What's that?"

Abel is a neighborhood legend from street talking; I know he is an actual person and a devout student of wisdom, the most accredited teacher of common congeniality loathing livelihood. He must be a residential anomaly. I am meeting with Ice at a Mad Town espresso house. I will come back when our book block hides love letters instead of calenders; by then I shall be damned.

This city is a mysterious entrance I cannot recall passing through; every moment is a dream aligning a nightmare of statistical grievances. I discover inequality is a world I agreed to join for an unknown duration; I am unsure who desires me to be here but I desire to be with them regardless how they perceive me.

A woman in deliberate attire, white knee high skirt, pink quarter length crew neck, white cardigan wrapped around her collar bones, pink loafers gentle to pavement captures my silly curiosity for several moments; an unspoken request calls me elsewhere, I cannot stay.

"Hands behind your back!"

"?!"

"Put your fucking hands behind your fucking back!"

"Why?"

"We found some shit in your purse!"

"Why were you looking in my purse?"

"You left it there!"

"You had no right to look in my purse."

"You're under arrest!"

I am guilty for walking away; I speak with Libra's colleague before night. This woman interests my interests however I am unable to intervene; my deliberate attire is a silk crimson upon black curves tied cross loop wireless corset straight through dress to mid hip, I tread black boar leather four inch heels, my face is painted by the art of blood.

"Do you feel different about her?"

"Yes..."

"How so?"

"I feel less attached."

"How do you feel my dear?"

"I feel more attached."

"Oh dear."