Green

He was green. Sifting through the letters he got greener every second. Peek 824545201 was pulsating in the airwaves setting a mood. A long list of stagnancy protrudes through the static of the screen, could almost hear the crackle and the pop. He caught himself staring at binary. 1’s and 0’s flooded his sockets; it was like staring at the machine’s soul.

On the outside (or did you ever stop to think it might be in the outside?) torrential downpour gathered puddles and small children – laughing, hooting, hollering, pointing accusing fingers merely in jest. All joyous occasions come during December – the rain, Christmas, the birth of your savior Jesus Christ.

He was green. Green as if he was glowing with radioactive waste. In the darkness of his territorial bubble, he was his own night light. A green glow that could enter glass tubes and could transport itself through different places – a whole time zone worth, GMT, EST, DST… time, time that is slowly but surely running out. Hourglass syndrome. His head swims into the puddles outside. Detachment. Cold shoulders from ice queens dripping wet as they slowly melt into another puddle, where he will jump into and swim like a shark.

I would like some milk from the milk man’s wife’s tits…

Spinning into a web of who’s talking to who and thoughts of where is this conversation going anyway, sharp pains from blows of a metaphorical hammer to the side of the head pangs his wits. A cigarette isn’t far off to make him puke his heart and place it on his sleeve so everyone could see how much of an asshole he really was in thinking something is amiss.

He crawls into bed with electronic candlelit beeps as a blanket. A name scratching his tongue to the roof of his mouth causes his pupils to dilate. Mechanical puffing.

Green. Green was always his favorite color, even though he always says it’s red or black or mother of pearl. But not this kind of green, the kind of green where a printer loses all its ink. It feels like a coma.

He drinks soda to refresh memories. Or to drown it out. Either or.

Dutifully the shaking eyes close for slumber of approximately 5.32 minutes. The screen glows like an obsidian, the last visions of grandeur and of touch and of intimacy. He crawls back, 5 minutes is up. Time to dance silly little dances of swimming snakes writhing in the salt of the ocean. All it takes to force him to wake up was a paragraph. He was making all this up inside his head.

But isn’t that the fun part of it all?

He was green. But not as green as before. He started to think that maybe he wasn’t even green in the first place. Maybe it was optical illusions with Christmas lights and hanging ornaments outside the window – the constant bane of the season.

Standing next to me
He’s only my enemy
I’ll crush him with everything I own

A sugar was twirling into a cube as he gazed more and more into the constant tangent of specters that plague the new religion of hyperspace. Skin crawling with moss and uncertain periscopes, being born again and swelling to the hilt of unwanted pregnancies. He was green. He was green indeed. Words made him so. That was his assumption, no longer optics.

Certain amount of dream qualities hang on him that it bleeds through his own realities. Can it be a choir that can be acquired as you sleep like the boy who laughed as he wrapped himself in wet sheets to keep from being in heat? In his dreams someone else plays the different villain. In his reality, the same bastard has that eminence of lying to his teeth. A bitter aftertaste perhaps.

He swims and cascades to the depths of the floorboards. The rain has stopped but only for the shortest forever. Those eyes tell stories, but the tangles of the words don’t hold it up for any merit.

He was green. A jade green pendant, as he tortures himself with more baffling sentences versus his sack of self importance versus manic tendencies. It’s turning into a cycle. A redundant quip to postulate an excuse carved in his headboard and embedded in RSS and CSS codes. No wonder he was green. He brought it to himself. A masochist that wants milk delivered to him… in the morning.

The wires obtruded through his speakers and onto his ears. Melancholy prism cut into a shape of a blizzard, amputated senses of blurred out emoticon kisses and hugs, cleverly disguised as xoxo. And these guises are hollow point shells shot into a barrel filled with baby powder and care. The appliances talk and he can’t keep up.

He sits back and watches as he glows into a more neon color. Or odor. Whichever is appropriate enough to describe the meandering senses? A voice so oblique to get caught on any tape reel or vinyl scratch.

Qwerty keyboard. Headphones. Microphone. Cellular phones. Smooth voices and accents. Snake charmers. Inside stories of sordid affairs that never worked out but still, the meeting place and timeline is there. Forked tongues.

He was green. He has so many reasons.

He was green.

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