Curtains on my wall

The curtains across from my bed are like the bellows of an accordian. They breathe like a man in the hospital on a resperator. In and out slowly. Like the tides on the shoreline. In and out. Sucking onto the screen, then falling away only to be sucked back out onto it. Shadow plays out on the fabric. The light cresciendo's like the waves. It's color is a golden beige. Like a warm manila, or maybe dull, rather. The bellows at the top come to a point like a Russian castles towers. and inbetween shadows at the top of the curtains there are little bulbs of light, that make a pattern. The sun freckles through the curtain like spotted pointilism.

Virgin Moments

I wake up to the beat of the morning. I untangle my hair all pissed off and lay in the backseat of the bus wishing I could sleep. School goes by, like the actions of objects through a long exposure shot, unnoticed. Today I go deliver homework to my secret affair, best friend. She's out in what I call Highland Park. It shows up on my bill, out my parents tongue as some other far away destination. You know, when they're yelling at it for being on that bill in such a costly fashion. Anyways, I take off at, let's say 12:00. I'm an early-bird guy. Us seniors have this wonderful option of taking Home Studies, or Work Experience. When I heard about this, I aborted my six and seventh periods and joined the fun. So I walked down this little street to this other little street and started acting the part of a done mother, whose son is one of those drug brothers. "My son is NOT a human anymore. He's an arm to hold the needle. A vein to be violated. He's a shake to take over his body when he can't inject soon enough. He's a car that's been abused by the salt on the road in the cold winters of the Minnesota town he drives his owner around. He's rusting and rusting. Turning colors and flaking off."