Snapshots of Fictional Wanting

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As I watch the sights that I've seen a million times before grow smaller and smaller in my rear view mirror, I think about all my failures in this city. And a boy. My failures in Los Angeles and failure with the boy are insignificant to the greater picture of this move, yet they're all I can think about.

We sat down on his couch and he picked up his guitar. I couldn't look at him anymore. He was winning me over, so I tried to keep my focus on a used piece of floss lying on the coffee table. There was only one sign that a man who once had money, fame, a family, and legions of people who looked up to him lived there. All over the apartment were pictures of the former Mr. W. Young Mr. W. Smiling Mr. W. Handsome Mr. W. All before the switch was flipped. I was drawn into the photos. I couldn't stop staring at him. Who is this strapping, vivacious young man in the picture and who is that frail, sad, old man sitting on the couch? The apartment was covered in drawing paper taped to the walls. In what looked like children's handwriting, the words "Don't give up" lined the room.

I'm trying to understand the psychological undertone of why I'd find someone who looks like Humbert Humbert attractive.

Why is it, that upon being asked what she wanted out of their frequent rendez-vous, she immediately did an impression of a deer caught in headlights and proceeded to zero in on the soup she was eating and exerting all energy on drumming up a witty comment about the root vegetables in her meal?

I sat back in my chair and digested all those forgotten feelings that I just unearthed.

Maybe this will explain some things.

Maybe I was meant to be with a smart, big nosed, categorizable idiot savant.

Maybe I should just stop fighting it and give in to what my inner child has always wanted.

Ok, so if you're a Jewish-looking scientist who finds dinosaurs, ghosts, or time travel titillating ...give me a call?

Just you and me, driving through the desert. I'm watching you, with your hand out the window, your sunglasses on though it was pitch black in the desert, and thinking there was no greater moment than this.

Imaginary Subway Love Story

That's my favorite book
He says
As I lower my wayfarers to take a look
You sit down in front of me
And say I don't want to be
Another casualty
Of this crazy
Lazy
Generation

Oh, you're one of them
I say
Let me see your
horn-rimmed
social-whimmed
vintage
drippage
bleeding heart

I've seen you before
In a dream
Or maybe more
Like a movie
Starring you and me
and what we could be
Out destiny
Amongst this calamity

You can be my Alvy Singer
I will be your Annie Hall
We will go to dive bars
And analyze ourselves
We'll name our child Circumstance
Just like the people on TV
We'll divorce though never marry
And live happily ever after
In our fort underneath the couch.