icarus

american accents. i heard one or two over the course of the summer but nothing to prepare me for the nasal, bullhorn-esque quality of the way
my countrymen project their vowels.
then i was astounded to find myself shocked at the bare flesh women of all ages rep; it had been a while since id seen babyboomer tits and flabby legs squeezed into last summer's JC PENNY short & tanktop combo.
And god, the frosted blonde cropped coifs framing such painted faces. perhaps the women of india have a better idea by leaving it up to the imagination.
was i staring with shock at a woman in a tube top?
fuck their tracksuits are so tight, the patterns are all wrong and we move so blockily.

but yes here the waves have crashed and the beach is now empty. these days of adventure, intrigue, and romance are over and im wrapped in a white blanket against the colorado chill, jetlagged and waking up with a start from bittersweet dreams of far of places & faces.
im typing this but my eye keeps strayng to my parents new &ridiculously fast post-children vehicle.
its almost dawn, the roads are empty and i cant resist, so now ill go;
standing still is killing me. ive made a pact with the devil-- i may travel to the end of the earth nearly effortlessly but i must always do it alone. i may only love my fellow passengers till the ship lands and then im off with one hand on my chest and the other clutching a ticket.

cowardly, maybe. but the hope is that if i fly fast enough ill finally defeat gravity and break away completely