two pieces

1.
The Drunk
Sunset Blvd stretches and curves itself through lovely hills and ends at the ocean.
No sunsets today, though; clouds tower over the sea in majestic dimensions, adding to an everyday common drama unfolding at a bus station.
The drunk doesn't know of any of that and if so, only vaguely. He sits on his wooden porch and takes showers in shit stained knickers in the parking lot when the morning sun barely kisses the walls of my little room.
It might sober him up, actually, you never know, his wife bans him at times to the porch for days and nights and at times Rigo, the site manager, bans him back into the house.
Please, he pleads with the wife, you must take him back in, he cannot sleep on the porch all the time.
So she takes him back and thus a cycle comes to an end in a new beginning.
The snake that bites into her own tail.
The recycled life.
I wonder what he sees all day long when he melts into the porch, barely moving, just breathing.
When he slowly scuffles to obscure objects that look like trash to me and puts them into a new mysterious order.
I wonder, whether he knows.
The drunk.

2.
Christmas Eve Morning
Slowly I run my hand over the table. Push the crums towards the edge, watch them crumbling stumpling falling down. Free fall I think and start to day dream of zig zags. Free Fall.

The other is so intriguingly different. And yet, there are faint traces of similarities which squeeze the breath out of my lungs, I want to jump, plunge into the unknown but always with the assurance of waking up in warm arms.
A sense of lack of direction overwhelms me.
This is it: the futile nothingness of a straying mind. The search goes on for ever, but pieces of meaningless form monstrous bodies over the years: plump, arm- and leg-less, with three fingers placed inside the gross foul mouth, ready to push deep and evoke eviction, friction, vomit of fiction.
How could this beautiful day become so frizzy and dizzy, so disgusted and flustered, so blushingly reddish in the sun shining wheels. How could x-mas eve possibly become so stale in the face of destinies tired frown. How could I forget that luck is as always still too relative to be known.