Sweeten the Potato has been renamed Flesh Scrapyard. Thank you for reading.
Beige is the sigh of a single mother in the afternoon heat of a 99 Cent Store parking lot. It’s the taste of a coiled, metal doorstop after a beating. The boi-oi-oing it makes as you tug and release the tip. Beige is the litter that blows down an empty sidewalk at 4 pm. It’s reading Lolita by the hotel pool and making eyes at married men. Or the unfortunate accident of giving a hobo a $10 instead of a $1. It’s a blowjob with chapped lips. A nosebleed in a park that overlooks the ocean.
Beige. Beige. Beige. Beige.
The color of a city in slow motion. Dry mouths. Green juice. Abandoned malls. The salty trickle of an old man’s semen down your throat. It’s someday. It’s yearning. It’s childhood. It’s gone.
Beige is the silence between friends when the sun speaks too loud.
It’s reading Salinger in a classroom of rowdy boys. Or buying weed from your teacher and smoking it from 3-6 before the grown ups go home. It’s sand from the ocean. Teriyaki chicken from the Foxhills mall. Kissing your friends in the restroom for practice. Judas’s final sunset with the noose around his neck.
It’s a girl on the verge of knowing she’s beautiful and a boy in the aftershock of punching a hole in drywall. The stickiness on the side of a caramel frappucino and the empty satiation of an afterschool McChicken.
Beige is the dry handjob of adolescence.
The movie your brother takes you to after he hits you. The color his girlfriend’s apology. The stilted discomfort of a potential stepsister. The scream of her father when you find his Asian fetish porn collection. It’s grilled onions wafting in the air of an In N Out drive thru. Fleas hopping on hardwood. Termite shit on a silk pillowcase. The sizzle of a dab pen in the Hammer Museum restroom. The scent of piss on Hollywood Blvd.
Beige is a half-smoked Spirit on the ground.
It’s the dry crumple of a white man’s $20 as you load soil bags into his trunk. It’s the backdrop of The Treachery of Images, and the absence of its recognition since it stands across a Van Gogh. It’s a body by Egon Schiele. Lunch with Michael Mando. Flirting on set with Bill Murray’s nephew. It’s Coffee Bean matcha and ash on the window sills of a Barnes and Noble. It’s pulling down your mask to give roadhead in Malibu, driving back and forth down the PCH because there’s nothing better to do.
Beige is the color of a life unaware that it’s being lived.
The color of the sky on a day you’ve forgotten. The tremble of a dog that’s pissed the bed. The whimpers it makes as you deliberate punishment.
Beige. Beige. Beige. Beige.
It’s the smoke from tomorrow’s dinner burning in the stove.
You are one phenomenal writer.
love you 5ver