Ricardo Beverly Hills
Whenever I have to wake up early in the godforsaken morning, I stay up ridiculously late. Each minute that goes by leaves me saying, in my head, "just five more." And I think about you for just a minute or two, before realizing it's been five, no six, no seven. You are the perfect person, the one in my head. I cannot see your face quite clearly, no structure of bone jutting enough for me to tell masculinity or femininity, but I recognize that there is a completeness in your eyes, because they literally push me at times, though I cannot quite make them out. You are the glow around your fingertips when you try to cover your eyes from the sun, and your brightness dilates my pupils though I try to hide from it. When my eyelids slide in front of the black of my eyes, you become dancing suns, dancing, pounding clots of energy. Even in the night, when I start to fall asleep, you sway in particles of blue, swirling at the entrances to my mind.
I am only alone when I see clearly, when I walk through the day pretending to contribute, pretending to care, pretending to be halfway fucking talented at some menial task - pretending to mean something. In the most random of times, when I hear the screeching of breaks or the scattering of pigeons, I hear the deep bass clicks of your movement, swaying side to side, seducing me. You are music, and I alone hear you as the bushes about me turn electric green and pulse larger, pushing through their membranes, as I've frozen on Lafayette, beneath a giant Diesel ad spray painted on the side of a brick building. I am tempted to raise my hands, to let them glide on the slight wind, cutting through the city blocks, when I see a boy walk by in Juicy Couture. "Damn, boy, those are some nice jeans."
He turns for a moment, smiles, his cheeks lifting up his Oliver Peoples sunglasses, slightly. "Thanks, dude. Nice hair."
I laugh, wink, walk backwards a few steps and spin about coolly, slyly. Moby is playing in my ears, though I have no iPod, no disc and or walkman. The city is music. The city is bustling. The city is talking to yourself as you glide past a fence plastered in the same exact poster of Bono, over and over again. "Yeah, man, let's save Africa," I say as I stare into his eyes, well, his sunglasses. Then, "Ricardo Beverly Hills," for seemingly no reason at all - it just popped into my head.
"Somewhere, someone is dying," I continue to think out loud, "but today, I have nice hair." And I head toward the park, soothed by the music of the city, my perfect, androgynous city.
I am only alone when I see clearly, when I walk through the day pretending to contribute, pretending to care, pretending to be halfway fucking talented at some menial task - pretending to mean something. In the most random of times, when I hear the screeching of breaks or the scattering of pigeons, I hear the deep bass clicks of your movement, swaying side to side, seducing me. You are music, and I alone hear you as the bushes about me turn electric green and pulse larger, pushing through their membranes, as I've frozen on Lafayette, beneath a giant Diesel ad spray painted on the side of a brick building. I am tempted to raise my hands, to let them glide on the slight wind, cutting through the city blocks, when I see a boy walk by in Juicy Couture. "Damn, boy, those are some nice jeans."
He turns for a moment, smiles, his cheeks lifting up his Oliver Peoples sunglasses, slightly. "Thanks, dude. Nice hair."
I laugh, wink, walk backwards a few steps and spin about coolly, slyly. Moby is playing in my ears, though I have no iPod, no disc and or walkman. The city is music. The city is bustling. The city is talking to yourself as you glide past a fence plastered in the same exact poster of Bono, over and over again. "Yeah, man, let's save Africa," I say as I stare into his eyes, well, his sunglasses. Then, "Ricardo Beverly Hills," for seemingly no reason at all - it just popped into my head.
"Somewhere, someone is dying," I continue to think out loud, "but today, I have nice hair." And I head toward the park, soothed by the music of the city, my perfect, androgynous city.