Adventure, Coy Bo, Croy Buhco, Philosophy, prose, Surrealism, Uncategorized

Whose Expression is this?

Some Context

Edits: made this piece less melodramatic, added a poem of context.

I do not think my life is like a movie. Movies are nice little chunks of well said things ending in some type of resolution (if they are done right), and life is hardly so.

Animated by (Who?)

Whose gait do I emulate, and how carefully chosen are my words in the style of another?

 

yes, okay.
yeah, that works.

I am not comfortable again today, in solidarity I guess,
rather than from necessity.

sure, I’m in.
that’s perfect.

I type lol in response to something funny.
I’m not even smiling.

what am I doing?

I feel dizzy when I stand up, my muscles aching.

I drag myself across town towards the possibility of a cigarette.
my lungs can’t take much more at this point, but I don’t want to be hungry right now.

and if I close my eyes, I will keep pouring over my dream. not a sad or scary dream, yet a lost love that might have been. she acts awkward to me at a bonfire on the beach. And that was all.

it seems realistic.
which would make me cry if I thought about it too long.

so I jump out of my sleepy haze before I can, onto the street, on my board, slamming my foot on the pavement in long swells to carve away from my current thought pattern. i pass an intersection without checking both ways. I trust that would be the reality of our next meeting (if there ever is one), I dream us into awkwardness, instead of the needlessly romantic and unreal fantasies that my waking brain prefers.

she presses her chest and arms against mine into a dip in a wall, browsing around for onlookers, then, finding nobody, she turns her gaze to me, through my eyes, and into my soul. her arms fold at the elbow so that she can run her arms over my ribs.

oh, my ribs are showing. I haven’t eaten well in months. in solidarity, I guess. or lack of sympathy for myself. an acceptance of being uncomfortable… I open my eyes, and my mental picture of her evaporates.

I don’t waste my time on these thoughts. as in, they are not a waste of time. my chest burns even as I convince my self of their invalidity. I know how unlikely they are, given my history. I don’t write OUR history, because we don’t have one. her story probably has little or nothing to do with me. I am not. at least to her. I think.

and yet that time thinking of her is not wasted, I seek this feeling over all others. it is what keeps my fire burning, and that tantalizing thought (or possibility) makes me jump from danger, when I would otherwise let myself be stricken by it. that passion keeps my core warm, and keeps me feeding fuel to the flesh vehicle I inhabit.

I would not do myself harm, yet in this mood I would not go far out of my way to avoid it. what’s the difference? my body is usually sore from lack of nutrition, and I am rarely touched. I’m miles from where I started, yet nowhere. Breathe. I’m okay. I let my wheels find the easiest downhill and my thoughts fold into my body’s weaving motion. Then I see a pretty girl on the street. my troubles are gone for a moment. attempting to show off a bit, I slam hard onto the pavement. oofh. that’s reality for you. I get a cigarette from an onlooker, gotta get to the park, and get okay. off I go. I walk much farther than it seems I could have possibly come while cruising downhill through my mind.

I trudge uphill. ages pass, and I lose track of time. whatever, I tell my aches, “tough shit, we’re going.” and through city blocks that stretch, as an endless desert may expand out, horizontally, halucinogenically, in some Lovecraftian horror, until I arrive, parched.

I assume a water source. Then assure it.

at this sanctuary, a normal city park, I try to explain to a friend (who is consoling me, though not by trade), sometimes wiping quiet tears from my face. I’ve promised myself the counter cultural relief of showing grief in public. yet, under the condition that it does not interupt my vision, and does not make a sound. A young white man. I really can’t complain. so I don’t. I store it up inside, and it would rot my core. instead, I’ve decided to let it out where I can. and take anonymity whenever possible. Although, it’s not exactly a choice in the end.

I think she makes good choices in life, and I let my understanding of who she is, animate my actions and words, in the hopes that I will be able to make those types of choices too.

under such (unconscious) scrutiny of her personality, she starts to appear in my behavior. I emulate her, perhaps on accident, or in a moment I’ll be struck with a vision of her facial expression on my face. and I let myself be her. such grace and elegance in her long strides, and such hope in her brow. As if anything can be worked out in the end. that’s me walking, and I get a bit of a kick knowing it’s just how she does it.

I may not see this woman ever again. and that may be her loss, as well as mine. but the knowing smile i borrow from her is the best Ive got for now, and that’ll have to do.


I liked her instantly,
more than I am used to,
and my brain did some stupids, impulsively.

I slapped her butt when i should not have.
I told her I did not want to see her or be friends,
because we wouldn’t be together.
And i doubt that was the first time she had heard something like that.

now it makes me nauseous when i try to put myself in her shoes, having had to deal with how I acted…

I’ve been wondering, pondering how to word what I’d say. and how instead, I would just listen. She has since forgiven me, but I have not.
I am writing this to work towards that.

Why is it,
that i took us here?
And how is it that us,
Has little to do with her
And I.
And where I’ve taken us
Has little to do with
Her and I going somewhere,
Together.

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Adventure, Surrealism

And Then It Had Been Raining

By: Corey Boiko

We arrived at my uncle’s pillar porch as we got out of the cramped car which had too much stuff in one side of the backseat. Her friend drove a 1980 something Honda Accord. We all got out. They followed me as I approached the door and it opened. Like bees in a hive we knew what we had to do and time sped up. It was all subconsciously taken care of. We knew our tasks, which were separate but for a greater goal, and we went off individually to take care of them. I congregated with my uncle and I figured out that he was taking his own car to our ultimate destination.

My path once more crossed with her, and she had all her shopping bags this time. I stopped by my uncle’s car briefly as they rushed to their Honda. We reached an understanding and I turned to walk, quickly, to her friend’s car. She took my front seat… My uncle slowly started to put-put around the other side of our roundabout as I shoved myself into the same seat as her, because the back was now completely obstructed by her shopping bags. I was angry, but I suppressed the need to lash out easily, as we took off skidding around our side of the roundabout driveway. My uncle passed us going the other way and we watched as a cop flashed his siren and pulled him over. I felt relief that we hadn’t been targeted by this cop in our beat up cramped sedan.

I advised her friend to slow down, but too late. We hit a curb in front of us and dipped into a meadow like decline to incline that ended with a 3 foot fence and the continuation of our road. Her friend reminded me of his driving prowess and the nature of his off-road experience. We had all seen the road on the other side, so why not have some fun, he lamented. We sped up into the incline and jumped right over the fence on the other side. She needed to make it to her boyfriend’s house tonight, speed up. And then it had been raining. Careful, I mentioned, you won’t make this turn at the speed you’re going on this slippery street. I was increasingly worried but I hid my feelings to not spark up anyone else’s. It’s okay, as we flew over the side of the road once more into a recognizable grove. He hadn’t been lying about his driving skill, we jumped from one side of a shallow dirt valley to the other, and back, and forth, and back. Our pendulum like motion was devilish at most and her friend smiled at me. The faster we got and further from the road we got, the more I started to fear our ultimate goal.

Dread crept up on me and paralyzed me as the prairie’s horizon line cut off and an enormous cliff across the way became increasingly visible, the road adjacent to the base of the cliff, and then finally the lake that separated us from it. I wasn’t going to die, I reassured myself. And then we had launched into empty space. My heart pounded. The seatbelt that I shared with her held true on impact with the water, which wasn’t as jarring as I had expected. We kept our inertia much better than the other car that was also slowly sinking near us. And then my cousin was cramped into the same front seat as her and I. We were going to make it across the lake above water to the road. Her friend removed his seatbelt and made it out his door. Water started rushing in, and those few clumsy moment cost my cousin’s life. I fumbled with my own seatbelt, and was on my way out, but she pushed me back. The water level exceed my capacity to receive oxygen, but I hardly noticed, I wouldn’t get out. Nothingness flashed the briefest fraction of a second.

This record of my life skipped a beat, or intervention from above returned me to life, but I believe it was an alternate reality that my spirit escaped into. I was out of the car and onto the road before her. She was struggling and I helped her up the steep yet short ascent onto the solid ground. We were panting from exertion, pumped up from adrenaline. Her friend was nowhere to be seen, and neither was my cousin. I felt disgusted with her. I bit her nose to chin hard enough to let her know I was pissed. I got up to walk away and stepped on her face as I did. Was this real? I felt like I had gone down in the car. I couldn’t have really gotten out. Did I drown under the sea? Was that the reality of the dream that gave me an alternate dream ending? Will anybody ever remember this?

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