He stepped out the door and the warm sun hit his body. He locked the door, stuffed his single house key in his left sock, and began to walk down the steps. His heart jumped for a moment as he expected his upstairs neighbor to be sitting over the ledge of his patio smoking a cigarette without a shirt on. His neighbor has a soft furry chest and always glances at him as he goes for his morning workout. His green eyes and my blue eyes always meet for a second as I slowly walk out of the complex. The smoke exhaled from his lungs sinks out of his nose and from the corners of his lips and he smiles the moment our eyes meet. He rubbed his knuckles against his rugged chin and all I could think about was how good it would feel to slide my fingers throughout his cheeks.
Drunks slam “Game King” machines in worn down “Dotties” with more passion than a man who just married his fourth wife. The sanctity of this kind of marriage is a black road covered in eggs shells. If these machines could speak, they would probably ask you for a condom before you even touch them. Their bodies have locked gallons of water to regulate the flow of their breath, or maybe the sun burns too hot and too long to even shed a tear. Everyone is waiting to cry and revive this wasteland carnival —-or maybe the sun burns so hot in this crater shaped mason jar, we’re afraid to give up the only part of ourselves we know we can carry.
The glowing metal castle took one too many bites out of the earth. It sank into her mouth and every dollar slithering through the open arms of a run down bar is a hand reaching towards the sun. pretty girls molded into a voiceless fetish always miss the sun rise, old homeless men with the bones of yesterday and the blood of today just looking for shade, white-collar back stabbers siphoning cocaine through green paper and stuffing them into thongs, which is passed on so many different times it ends up as your child’s lunch money. Sin city? More like shit and pity. Horny book readers, monarchs and soccer moms, tourists and needle junkies, day dreamer and obsessive losers. There’s a young native hiding his sketchbook between the pillow cases because you can’t make money from passion, a professional mother who can’t seem to get her marriage right, a man who lips buckle every time he smashes the buttons of a game king machine.
It’s so hot, just like everyday. But I’ve never felt so cold.