the bone architect

crossing the street you miss your mother. the wind taken out of the sails. the sails then burnt on the open water. the boat tied to the dock loose and drifting. weathered by the weather, the waves make you nauseous and smile. people stop by and take pictures. some of them sit in the boat. some stay longer than others. holes poked, cracks and scars turn into a map. the boat alone. distance. you enter a convenient store unacknowledged. a security camera rests next to a television monitor revealing what is filmed and recorded by the camera. there you are. a shady character anonymous. nobody would ever love or care about you. under a bus. a court of law. a church. a job. you think of robbing the store. taking the money from the register. tipping shit over. everything. destroying it. you turn around and head for the liquor store. wine and bottles of booze. red. red. red. price tags. happiness. white. white. whiskey. the counter and behind it. chinese owners. miserable. lottery tickets. lottery players. lottery losers. music you are unfamiliar with and dont care about is playing on some awful radio up there in the ceiling. a wavelength that you dont understand. a signal from a station somewhere right? satellites and aliens. micro-waves and tv dinners. green pork and a disappointed child. plastic forks and a failed attempt to squeeze more out of life. so just stare. your face dries out and an oasis disappears. there is more desert. sand. sand that leads to a beach. to a dock. to a boat alone. you leave the liquor store with two bottles of red and give a homeless drunk your change. something would surely be effected by that mans death you think. his life cant be completely useless. something somewhere would live or die and change somehow if he were to leave this earth. even somebodys sorrow would make his life worthwhile. if just one person cared. it would be easier. you open the door of your apartment building. mailbox. a letter for somebody else. a past tenant. you throw it on the ground and begin up the stairs. dirty bright light. nobody cares. residents of an abandoned planet. a society ruthless. in the small rooms love and hate share a bed. innocence and cynicism strangled. the family alive. you make it to your door. it opens. it melts. the light turns on. the walls and the floor boards crawl all over one another. the door closes behind you. there are wings without feathers on your shoulders. the bone architect. the evening. forever grateful. the day is not mourned. you are not alone. the bottles of wine are opened and drank. you will wake up tomorrow but not right now.