kivatown

[kivatown]

Load Game. The mechanisms of exhaustion mines fuel from many sources. Couch potatoes talk about the idea of learning a language. This day is over and there’s nothing I can do about it. No flip, somersault, or trebuchet works in the way I want it to.

Lamp on. Homey onomatopoeias. A good acrobat must rest their weary legs. If I did too much of a bad thing today, now’s the time to recognize and forgive. After all, there’s a few hours left before sleep — eternity enough to become whoever or whatever. An acrobat. An acrobat plus another thing? Maybe just the other thing? Hey, focus.

Learn a word, any word.

I don’t want friends inside my phone anymore. My wants aren’t reasonable: friends inside my apartment block, my living room, my bedroom. It requires me to try. Zzz.

#prose #creative writing

[kivatown]

Load Game. Mojo back. Going on a hike to hone my skills. Misty Castle Rock. Out of mist comes Man Everett, stomping about in beanie and Docs, flipping a Sestarius. Waved and kept going.

Ended up in New Big Basin: every new tree the exact same height, every old one burnt and barren. That land belongs to the birds now. Look up and watch them nest. Look right and see an angry white park ranger: Old Big Basin. You’re not supposed to park on this road, he said.

I walked here, I said.

It’s not the crime of the century, he assured me. Take your little pictures and leave.

Wasn’t picturing. I’m 5’11 and leaving.

#prose #creative writing

[kivatown]

New Game. Acrobat. Ya, I can jump now.

The cats are pretty smart. It’s a big view, our apartment, and there’s an endless stream of information. Maybe in the cacophony of modern life they make note of the train horns, too. Its problematic beauty: The Trains Will Run On Time, Si Si Si, and yet I take comfort in the physically exhausting routine of bright lights and really just such industrial nightmare noises. One time an alarm sounded for like, 20 minutes, and we all pretended to vibe. I don’t care, I will vouch for the train over hwy 101 any day. If the cats had a 360 degree – if we lived in the clouds (deservedly) with a full view of the beauty and horror of the Bay (green hills and a crumpled car turned on its side like a washed up whale or a newborn in a stroller next to Meta), they’d understand. Si Si Si. Wait, but I like my coworkers. You’re a fascist, said the mountain lion. Shit, now that’s a big cat. Gotta get outta here. Up a palm tree and employ the wingsuit. Acrobat. 

Crash land into 2024. My birth certificate is fictitious, I just got here. No, really, I used to work at a Martian burger joint. I don’t know how to talk but I can stare; rude. Some days, my curly hair tells a whole story on who I am and where I’m going. Some days, my curly hair is a decoy for the anxious bag of meat. Sexual dimorphism?

Acrobats must listen to the body. The tension of every muscle against every other muscle. Calories in, calories out: it can be deduced to a sad numbers game, but unfocus and let it function as a give and take. Listen with ears, with bones, with vibes, with everything.

Martian burgers got that brain fog but sometimes you gotta. An acrobat wouldn’t say such a thing and yet I define myself as one and I did. So, what is it? Am I a phony or am I capable of being multiple things? Writing it out plainly gives me the confidence to choose the latter but those burgers got me zoning out on the former. I’m a phony. I’m a phony.

Gotta diversify my portfolio or something. Invest in things that don’t make me feel good. Zzz.

#prose #creative writing