blurb proxy style

after finally breaking through, proxy style, i was internet literate again. what was worth writing down? nothing more than a world of glitter covered pretty faces, actors, dancers, singers, models, and men who enjoyed the cloudiness of vain cuban cigars.  i sat wearing my think-green t-shirt, jeans and flipflops, more unpolished than my worst bohemain intent, trying to smile like not-so-teen spirit.  someone brought me a hookah, apple flavored, like it was a joke and i smoked, taught the pretty faces how to inhale such intoxicating fume.  it wasn’t any specific person that intrigued my memories at that very moment, it was a feeling, like the honesty of an autumn night in fort greene, like that special song played on the brooklyn bridge.

i wished it was the truth that would inspire me again.  a truth so close to love like the melting of vocal molasses, the rare realness stored in the museum of earthly regrets i no longer planned to visit.