What Colors the Steel Sky Blue

PLEASE NOTE: The following events did not take place in 2010. The original entry was written way back in 2002 about events that took place in 2001. I somehow saved it as a draft and never published it. I guess I was still a little embarrassed about the whole thing. Now that the media, reality shows and social networking has left no shame in us all, I find it not a problem to post this story. Hope you enjoy it. The story is presented not to shame Jamie in any shape or form but to entertain and illustrate how life in a big/small city can be frustrating at times.

I live in Stuyvesant town amongst a sad set of brick buildings and greenery to put other parks on the island to shame. Amongst such beauty resides an immense sadness whose source to me is unknown. Perhaps it is a sadness of the years past or it is my own sadness, a fruit of my current state. Perhaps both. Either way living here in my brick and concrete cell feels like curling up in my own misery, somewhat a comfortable bed; one that I never chose to lay in, but I am too tired to try leaving.

I can almost feel this current run through my body as I leave the Stuyvesant town. The jolt, nevertheless imaginary, still makes me feel like a dog running past an electric fence. Once on the outside, it is almost harder to go back in to Stuyvesant town.

Outside it is crazy; it is wild; it is non-stop; and it demands your attention at all times. Outside there is no time to sulk, no time to stop and ponder; outside I must keep moving; the trees cast shadows on me no longer. Outside, one can sometimes be happier than he is in Stuyvesant town.

Living on this tiny piece of flat land called Manhattan, one is bound to run into some people over and over and over. In any other town, you would get eventually get to meet these people, perhaps even make good friends with them. Not in Manhattan.

In Manhattan these are the people you will try to avoid by taking a different path home everyday. Sounds insane but don't tell me you never did this.

What's worse than these random meetings is the possibility that each time one person may be more spooked than the other. One of these daily encounters can put one person in the role of the stalker and the the other in the role of the stalked. This is not to say that one person is always the stalker and the other always the stalked. In fact the roles of these unsuspecting strangers change faster than what's hot in the pop charts.

Well such a person for me is Jamie Harrold, an up and coming actor who has done a decent set of movies and also strangely enough works out at my gym. I kept running into him rollerblading in East Village and or course at the gym in the evenings.

I absolutely had no idea who he was for the longest time. He always looked strangely familiar to me; but then again this happens pretty frequently with me so I did not give it any thought. Finally a couple of weeks ago I was going through my DVD collection looking for something to watch. I decided to give Erin Brockovich another spin.

Halfway through the movie, right when my energy levels were hitting rock bottom and I was considering watching the rest of the movie the next day, there he was on screen. He was the waterboard guy in the movie. It's a small world, and a smaller city.

A couple of days ago I went up to him on my way out the gym and said "hey!". I admit I was trying to keep my cool because I have always found initial conversations with strangers, well just that, strange. He was friendly. We shook hands and I kinda gushed that I really liked the Erin Brokovich. He kinda did not know what to say. I was slipping towards acting like a groupie fast so I kinda cut it short and said bye. Overall I think I did not do too bad. I was hoping I could have a few more follow up conversations with him later -- since I saw him at the gym and on the street everyday!

Well I was wrong. After we met, this cloud of discomfort settled on his face every time he saw me. I was starting to believe that I was put in the role of the stalker and wanted no part of it. The coincidence of running into him all over East Village went from being a daily joke to being darn right annoying. I was truly going on about my life, changing my path, taking another subway line, trying alternative routes, alternative gyms and he seemed to be EVERYWHERE....

First we stopped saying hi, then we stopped acknowledging each other on the street, and soon enough we were strangers again. Ah, the comfort of being complete strangers. I am not planning to give it up so easily next time.

Every day new people come into our lives, much like new voyagers to a ship. Some depart quickly leaving not much for a trace, others stay on for days, months, decades. It is not the length of time that really leaves the mark behind however it is sure to factor into the depth of the mark.

When I left New York, I would like to believe that some people actually missed me. I know my cousin missed me, as I missed him in my life. Perhaps other people I met along the way in those brief 2 years missed me for a month or two. I hope they still remember though I do not know why I hope so.

Either way with my arrival in Austin, a lot changed in my life including a new job, a whole new group of coworkers. Amongst this team was my work-partner, my number one team mate, my other half to be: James Salisbury. I met him during the new employee orientation. A tall dark haired man with prominent and marked bone structure that not only exuded confidence but also created a sense of safety -- a sense of comfort. It seemed like we were going to get along just fine and I was relieved because I know I can sometimes be difficult.

Well, the honeymoon did not last long. Within a couple of weeks we were already in "I want to do it this way", "you want to do it this way" kind of disagreements. In fact after the first couple of months it became apparent to me that we were not going to get anything done unless one of us gave up his personal preferences and played along. And this I did, although every bone in my body screamed that this was not the right course.

I let James create our technology plan, I let him come up with the specs. He loved to work, and heaven knows he seemed to be working hard. He was putting in the hours and I was supporting best I could. At least I thought what I was doing was good enough. Well it wasn't; not for him anyway.

Most of our exchanges started or ended with "why did you do the following task this way as opposed to that way", "you wrote so and so code wrong, it does not work", "no it's all broken, you were busy so I rewrote the entire thing". At first I thought my skills were rusty from such an extended unemployment. But then I realized the number of things I could successfully do was getting smaller every day, leaving me in charge of fewer and fewer tasks I was considered competent to do.

My boss insisted on keeping the two of us as equivalents although both of us at different times had volunteered to work under the direction of the other. So the clashes continued. Yes we were equivalents, with the exception that most of the team only listened to his recommendations while blatantly ignoring my input. He sounded so calm, so calculated, so knowing. Sometimes even I doubted if I was the one full of shit and if he was right all along.

So I shut up, I tried to keep my quiet, I tried to play along. I tried to work with him. But it became more and more impossible until I just could not take it anymore. So after one of our usual "you can not do it right" exchanges I decided no more -- a line had to be drawn here.

I scheduled a meeting with my boss and related the situation. At the time my boss was almost completely unaware of the clash between the two of us. He was shocked, surprised, and a little confused as to how to proceed. I asked him to not intervene and let me handle it. I was merely informing him ahead of time so that he would not be caught by surprise when I acted differently in project meetings.

Right around the time I started to open up and be more vocal about my problems with the ways things were in the team, James started to shy away from us all, started retreating into his corner where he typed at the keyboard incessantly like a deranged racoon. All day long, he would back typing away, looking up questioningly if I dared to leave my desk for five minutes.

He frequently asked me why I was coming in late, or why I was leaving early on some days. Days I took for sick leave, or comp time were frequently questioned. He was acting like my boss, trying to manage my time, asking me questions one should not really ask a coworker of equal rank.

I just could not take seeing him right there at the other end of the unobstructed room any longer. So we both went to Target and bought Japanese screens for the room. So the walls went up and soon we did not offend each other with our faces. The walls quietened the stress for a while but instead of chasing it, the screens actually were the beginning of the pressure build up that would eventually erupt one day right when I expected it least.

I defined my work and my tasks by things James did not want to do or was not interested in doing. So the work flow was even partitioned off into tasks only I would do and others only he would do. And believe me my set of tasks always were prey to his ever endless free time and his way of just knowing how to do my job better than me.

I have never been in a job before where I had to almost beg to keep my tasks on my plate. Like a big dog, not only he chowed down his tasks but always had his eyes on my dish. It just did not make sense; I am sorry it just did not.

I tried to communicate with him several times either in person or e mail and every time I was confronted with his singular opinion about how I was doing things wrong and how he was completely unmistaken. The whole experience was a lot similar trying to talk some sense, some objectivity into the religious right. I could gab all day but when it was all said and done he was right and I was wrong.

I am willing to fight any fight and willing to try to win anyone over, time and time again. Heaven knows, I am stubborn at times but that actually means I do not give up on people that fast. I still had not given up on James and I wanted it to work but it just didn't no matter how I changed my role in the team. I tried the project management, production management roles. He would not have it. I was not out to position myself to be his boss, all I wanted was to help him organize his coding efforts but he was not even open to that.

So we went around in circles, with me retreating into my corner and my set of tasks for a while then getting another burst of courage to venture out and try to get things to work with him and back again. This whole pattern was observed by him as "Troy is checking in and out of the project." And this expression became his equivalent of "flip flop" argument the right wing used against John Kerry. Every time I brought something important up, it was disqualified by the fact that I checked in and out of the project.

While this was all going on, we did have months of peace especially around the time he was busy with his wedding plans. I even went to his wedding and it was a great experience to be there. To this day I still do not regret going to the wedding.

So you can imagine how mixed up my head was after two years of this, hot, cold, warm, scalding, freezing, cold, hot and everchanging experience. The feeling of not knowing whether I will be ignored or put down during any given day was messing with my head.

In times of distress I reach for chocolate and it is the one thing I must avoid because it gives me migraines making me even more irratable and angry. Well I plunged into the world of conspicuous chocolate consumption and I knew, I knew some days I would walk into work -- especially in those last few months, with the WORST of all attitudes because the hangover migraine from the day before was hurting so bad.

We had no project plan, no deadlines, no clear milestones... hell we did not even have a technology plan nor any form of achitecture document. Did I mention we were developing in Java?? Exactly.... I begged and I begged, I prodded and prodded for months to get him to sit down and create an architecture document or some high level tech plan at least but it was useless.

One day I walked in, dazed by one of my migraines to find James all braced like a cat in his corner, ready to pounce. I was not sure what was going on but I knew nothing good would come of it. Before I could say hi, I was asked to hand over the code I was putting together for him so that his code could talk to our database. When I asked why, I was told it was because I would be gone for a week for vacation. Apparently, by taking vacation, I would be setting back the project. Mind you, no one at this point had informed me when my chunk of the code was supposed to be ready. Suddenly he was done with his code and needed my code before I left for vacation. When I told him it was not finished he told me that he can finish it. Now normally, I would appreciative of such an offer but with him we had a precedent -- and not a good one. I knew right then and there what was going to happen. My code was going to be thrown out once more, and replaced by his code which strangely looked like my code but had no functions, and nor any object oriented style worth mentioning.

You see this pattern had been taking place in the last two years where I would prototype something, he would take it away from me and turn it into his code and then proceed to delete my version. My documentation from servers would vanish, my experimental code folders would be erased or not tolerated for long on the servers. I could not believe that I had been working at this place for two years, I had so little to show for it -- everything was so rewritten, so erased, so taken offline... Any trace of my work was practically erased and I had had enough.

I told him no such hand over would happen and that I would finish the code and document it once I get back. Well that kind of opened the flood gates. Next thing I knew he was telling me that I was a risk to the completion of the project, that I was refusing to communicate with him, work with him, etc. It was such an accusatory, you you you did this, you did that, you're wrong attitude combined with a raised voice that I was not going to sit there and listen to him. I told him to voice his concerns to our boss if he is so concerned and that he can not communicate with me in this manner.

Silence ensued.

For three months, we must have only said "good morning" in the morning and "have a good one" at the end of the day. Otherwise we did not talk to each other, we did not work with each other, hell we did not look at each other.

My anger lasted longer than it has lasted for anyone in my life. I could not even bring myself to look at him on many days.

He kept to himself. As usual he talked to no one else beyond who's on our immediate team of five. He kept the bare minimum 8 hours -- mostly coming in at insane early hours and leaving at 4PM sharp. I on the otherhand came in as late as I could, usually at 10:00AM and left at 7PM. Subconsciously and secretly our schedules were overlapping each other less and less every day -- until we came to a point where it was almost impossible to schedule a meeting with both of us at the same time.

Long story short, he left without a warning right before the Christmas break of 2004. The day he came in to announce it, we were so shocked but I just could not keep the completely inappropriate smile off of my face. I was a little upset still, upset that he was going without a warning, leaving us in the middle of an already broken production schedule. He was the reason the schedule was so broken and I had never for once told him so. In fact where I come from we spend a lot of time complaining about the small things but never wipe people's face in mud for the big things. It is considered rude and unkind. For big things, you try to help and support people. Well James had certainly fucked us up with the uncertainty he created in our team for two years, by messing with our morale, by messing with our egos, by making what should have been a fun stressless job into one of the most uncomfortable and stressful projects I have worked on.

My project team talked a lot about James after he left. He was the subject of many lunch and hallway conversations. So I feel somewhat justified to deliver the following message on behalf of my team:

James, thank you ever so much for nothing. We love you, respect you, and wish you the best -- just don't come back.

I worked in a company that tried its best to emulate the typical new economy company, complete with its unruly employees, cancerous and unreasonable growth, lots of big talk, and among many other things toys in the office. The Austin Branch took pride in having a certain time of day set aside for nerf wars and late night Quake tournaments. In fact, so many employees spent so much time goofing around that we all ended up spending every waking hour at work to catch up with our endless diversions and unrealistic totally overblown milestones.

The New York office was no different. However, by the time I was relocated to the New York office, the economy was already slowly tanking. The pipeline was so empty you could see tomorrow through it and tomorrow did not look good. There were constant rumors of pending layoffs. Will it be this Friday? No, it will be Monday. If not Monday, well it may be Tuesday because it is right before the end of the quarter. In this "sobering" environment all the toys had been cast off to one of the lower unoccupied floors in the hopes that quitting the fooling around would somehow increase our chances of getting new clients and keeping our jobs.

During my lunch breaks, I would go through this huge conference room full of toys trying to find something entertaining to get my mind off, however briefly, of the horrible project I was working on. During one of these excursions, I saw a familiar shape and color towards one of the back corners of the room. Was that really a box of LEGO blocks? Yes it was!

I quickly salvaged it and brought it up to our office work area. At the time I did not worry about a layoff hitting me. I thought to myself; "They just paid 20 odd thousand dollars to relocate me here, there's no way they're going to let me go anywhere in less than 2 years. I was wrong but as I said, I did not know better back then.

This is how my recent prolonged addiction to LEGO started. Several of my office mates also were into LEGO blocks. I remember many of our hopelessly long meetings ending with some sort of a game involving LEGO blocks. Our culture was screwed up, the New York office's culture was worse and the combination of the two was just vile. We all needed an escape and mine was these miniature towers I started building during my lunch breaks.

The first few ones I built were lame but then I suddenly developed a style: It involved over-emphasized verticality conveyed through alternating "floor" colors. Using two different colors created structures that conveyed floors that human eye could recognize even from a distance. Using two different colors of blocks also had another advantage: taller structures thanks to twice the number of pieces. I went from building completely solid towers to more and more shell like structures that housed a significant amount of empty space in them. Creating the voids within the tower created lighter structures as well as allowing me to build taller. Through trial and error, I became pretty experienced in making tall ziggurat-like stepped structures reminiscent of most New York high-rises.

I must admit that I spent most of the summer pre-occupied with my LEGO towers when I should have been paying more attention to the Flash Presentation we were preparing for Deutsche Bank. In all honesty, the presentation was as entertaining as watching paint dry and I had long lost interest in the endless stream of corporate mumbo-jumbo we had come up with for our client through endless hours of fruitless meetings that to me felt like the intellectual equivalent of having bamboo sticks drawn under my fingernails.

Soon I was out of LEGO blocks and in a fit of insanity, I went and bought us another box. A month later towards the end of August 2001, in an effort to increase my engagement in the project, my crazy but well-meaning project manager bought me one more of the same tub of 4000 pieces. I was in LEGO heaven; I had more pieces than I knew what to do with.

Well, you know what happened next.

After 9/11, we were back at the office pretty soon, a little too soon. I was back at work on Thursday of that same week. Considering my commute path had literally been destroyed and now it took me about an hour and half to get to work, just like the other crazies at my work place I was going to work everyday as if nothing actually happened. I now believe we were experiencing some sort of denial. We all figured, if we kept busy, perhaps then all of this mess across Hudson that played like a bad 9/11 DVD day and night through our endless floor to ceiling windows would somehow stop. But it didn't. The site kept smoldering for weeks, as we stared on like campers on the skirts of Mt. St. Helens. A gaping hole, a steam that ever changed direction and strange metallic sounds growling as the heavy machinery worked at the site. The reality did not stop, though we buried our heads deeper into the fictional drama of our project deadlines and goals.

I disassembled all of my towers and started working on a way too big model of the World Trade Center Towers. This model was so big I would need at least 3-4 4000-piece tubs to complete it. I felt compelled to recreate them in some shape or form. Perhaps many people felt the same thing, despite the fact that most of us did not find the two towers all that aesthetically pleasing.

Three or four weeks after 9/11 I gave up on trying to build the models. Our clients were finally out of the mess they had fallen into when the south tower fell onto their headquarters in New York and put all their vitals systems offline. Once I abandoned the WTC model idea, I went back to building the same type of towers; Though I must admit, the towers I was building were much taller and larger --thanks in part to the number of blocks at my disposal and our communal need to make up for the drastic decrease in phallic objects in our proximity.

In a couple of months I ended up with a large block of fairly good-looking designs, each with its unique edge and story. Until I got laid off I dragged this large block of 3-4 foot towers around the office as our team kept getting moved every 2-3 weeks. Every time we moved, people came to watch. They wanted to see how the city was moved they said -- I think they wanted to see if we would take a wrong step and drop the whole thing by accident.

The day before we all got laid off, I already knew we were all toast so I broke the tall towers into neat segments and packed them all. The next day, as I expected, I got laid off along with the rest of the people that were relocated from Austin. I told my project manager that I considered the LEGO city to be mine as a parting gift. He did not object. When I got home from work, the first thing I did was to assemble the city back together.

By the time I was done, it was clear to me: I was an unemployed alien worker in New York City living in a $2200 rent apartment in Manhattan at the worst possible time -- right after the biggest terrorist attack in US history.

Why do I open my eyes in the morning?
Why all the beating in my heart?

Why does this broken back bend,
curl and then roll out of bed?

My body a bag of deliciously colored BBs
all headed toward the kitchen
bouncing off the walls
some getting lost in the floorboards.

Why brew coffee, cook some eggs, talk back to the TV?
Why look at the paper, water the plants, why shower?

Lotion is applied, then comes brushing my teeth
then flossing, then the Listerine.
Cleaning my ears, combing my hair
as the iron is heating.

Why iron clothes
when I know that I when I take a step outside
I will be naked but no one will be seeing.

Why even bother putting on shoes
when every step of mine takes me further away
from where I need to be going?

Pack the lunch, turn the TV off
close the windows, put the dishes away
dont forget your phone, grab your bag
keys, wallet, watch and I am leaving.

Why the happy tunes in the car?
Why pass a car? Why stop at a stop sign?
As I pass on by, I see the old driver
he smiles and motions me forward.
--his eyes mutter, go ahead run forward.

Rushing to work,
getting trapped at untimed lights
trying to find parking
running to the office
being late again to a meeting.

Why even bother?
When it is so much easier to just stop breating.

"Oh I have discovered the most divine little restaurant in East Village--and it was cheap! It's called Amato. Go there before the masses find it and ruin it" --Typical New Yorker

I too have caught myself many times saying something pretty similar to the statement above. I guess when you live in New York city, in addition to the weather, traffic and models, you have the infinitely dense, diverse, and elusive fauna of restaurants to talk about. There's part gloating, part sharing and part shameless need to talk constantly in all this. Gloating because you were there first, you discovered it, before you came this restaurant was buried under rubble and the waiters were sitting around wondering why there were no customers. Sharing because New York people are not all bad, unlike the way I make them sound here, they too have a good bone or two in them and they like to share little secrets of living well in the city --not with just anyone tough these little factoids are only to be shared with the cool and the savvy.

David, my partner whose southern upbringing has been lost on him except for his excellent manners and amazing wit, is hopelessly addicted to Turkish food ever since he met me. In addition to this addiction, he also dislikes several other cuisines of the world; specifically Chinese, Japanese, Indian. He does not eat fish, and avoids anything with rice. I can brave just about everything with the exception of Italian restaurants in NYC -- too much mafia behavior, it ruins my appetite. I single Italian restaurants out because several times I have eaten at Italian restaurants in NYC only to find the food ordinary and the bill higher than it should be. The hefty bill also is compounded by the fact that most Italian restaurants in NYC will not accept MasterCard or Visa, they only accept American Express and what else... cash. Silly and pretentious.

As you can imagine, between David and I we cut about more than half the list of available restaurants. The remaining restaurants are usually either really busy or surrounded by traffic that turns a taxi cab ride to for lunch an insane crusade of two across Manhattan. Naturally, we end up eating most of our lunches in East Village.

Several restaurants we frequent are The Cloister Cafe, Telephone Bar, St. Marx Cafe, Veselka, Lemon Leaf, Shangri La, and several street corner pizza joint on 1^st and 3^rd Avenues. Missing from this list is the 2^nd Avenue Deli, a prominent historical staple of the East Village scene. Oh we have eaten there, just not more than once.

It was an overcast day in Manhattan, not cold but there was a lukewarm breeze in the air. Both David and I were starving. to make matters worse we were in one of our let's try something new moods. It seemed like in a city full of restaurants we were suddenly unable to find one to eat lunch at. It was 2pm already and I was starting to switch from just grouchy from hunger to down right unpleasant. David was no better, whenever he is hungry he just gets quieter and quieter and quieter until it feels like I am escorting a mute person.

Here we were on 2^nd Avenue in front of the infamous deli. On one had I was not familiar with Kosher food and wanted to try it. I had heard mixed reviews of the kosher food phenomenon. I think we did not have much time to decide. In a matter of a few more minutes I was going to start picking fights with strangers and because of his hunger David would not even have the energy to stop me. So with one brave step we entered the 2nd Avenue Deli.

We were running late so the lunch crowd had already left. Many days I have walked past this restaurant and silently giggled at the masses of people piled in waiting for a table for 45 minutes. I had a strange understanding of these people today, perhaps they too were stranded in their search for a restaurant and the 2^nd Avenue Deli was right there looking at them in the face and asking no questions.

We were promptly seated at one of the booths that had been just cleaned up. The table was still shiny from the rag with long curly streaks drying fast to reveal a dull tan colored formica table. The interior of the restaurant was paneled with a very dark red wood that at times made me feel like I was in a mountain lodge or perhaps a lost Frank Lloyd Wright building. Our drinks arrived, a diet coke and an ice tea. The coleslaw and pickles plate also arrived a few minutes later although we had not requested it. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against coleslaw, it was actually pretty tasty. What I don't like about coleslaw is not so much as what it tastes like as what it does to me once I eat it. There's the indigestion, followed by gas and perhaps the shame. It should be marked as a controlled substance.

The coleslaw tasted good, but the pickles were sad. They were sad like kids pulled out of bed way too early. They were neither cucumbers nor pickles; They were a little bit of each and neither at the same time. They were soft and not crunch. They only promised more indigestion and perhaps even a wonderful episode of IBS and I did not even want to think about that.

Then finally like a diva our waitress took stage and came by our table to take our order. She was a 5'7" tall lady in her late fifties with a big cheap blonde wig that was topped by a white hat not dissimilar from those worn by nurses in old war movies. Her makeup was heavy like a wooden puppets and I could swear it was flaking. To make matters worse she was in some sort of a French maid outfit; while the this dress code might be provocative and sexually titilating on perhaps a 20 year old girl, at her age she looked like a French and Saunders episode that found a way to break out of the TV screen.

As we began ordering my mind had completely stopped and I merely emitting a waxing and waning glow like the Apple Macintosh laptops do when they're asleep. So in the middle of my low blood sugar crisis, I listened on as I mouthed the words "I'll have a 2^ndAvenue Burger with American Cheese." Before I had a chance to look up, I knew I had said something wrong. I did not have to wait long, the waitress was quick to correct me with a capital C.

She literally shouted at me saying "THIS is a kosher restaurant! You can not mix meat with cheese. You should know that." With no further ado, she turned around, her short black skirt taking flight from the abrupt move and proceeded into the kitchen. David and I were left behind staring each other like kids that just spilled something at the dinner table. On one hand what had happened was so wrong, on the other hand we were so hungry that we did not have the power to pick a fight. And even if we did, we would be back on the street looking for another restaurant again --and you know we would be searching for another hour before we settled down again.

The food arrived and I still had not recovered from the abuse. Like a victim of abusive parents, I sat at the table and quietly ate my bland, boring, and greasy burger. David was also laying pretty low. I think we had made a silent agreement not to talk about the incident until we got out of there.

We must have left her the smallest tip we have left in our 2 years of dining in New York City. We walked back home slowly on 2^nd Avenue replaying the incident in our heads -- trying to weight how wrong it was of me to say what I did and how wrong of her was it to snap like that. Perhaps we were thin skinned, perhaps we were not ready for this city with all its rules and regulations and hidden gotchas around every corner. Perhaps we were too tired and hungry and despite my stupidity someone could have been more gracious.

After this incident 2^nd Avenue Deli has become for me a monument to the over-rated nature of kosher food: double the price, half the service, and rules and regulations that make less than zero sense. I mean what's the point of washing lettuce a specific number of times when you know you're washing it with the water that comes out of NYC main?

...ruthless time
your hand on the gun
your eye in mine
ready to commit
that ruthless crime...

...clinging on,
tangled emotions turning
turning around the missing wheel
loopy like the greasy chain.
Dangling brakes unable to stop
the time passing.
The pavement heats,
the pavement cools,
soon it will be raining.
The clouds don't speak
the clouds don't call,
but they lick this wounded bike
with two wheels missing.

Although you run through me
like deep streams of a hot morning shower
you wash nothing off of me,
leaving me with my dirty thoughts
and a pile of laundry beside the couch.

Beside me a dog that barks for love
and is beaten to silence,
Outside the door a lawn overgrown
with diminishing hope for water.

In this three bedroom house
without you I wait for the ceiling to fall
but it hangs on by its tresses like claws
onto the laughter filled days that echoed here.

Now I can do the cleaning
with environmentally friendly detergent.

Take out the trash again
and yes even clean the oven.

Brew another pot of coffee
pour a cup for me, a cup for you.

The passing hours clouding my memory
As this house and I wait.
Waiting for you to come back to me
again.

Troy James Vega