Erik Taylor

The lovers whisper to each other, soft gentle words spoken in that voice only reserved for one other person. I sit nearby, an unnoticed voyuer basking in the emotional sunlight as she stares quitely into the glowing fireplace. Arms wrapped gently around one another her eyes well up in tears for the sweet words of poetry spoken from some unknown volume of sonnets. In the far back corner of a bookselling giant where cd’s sell for 18 dollars each and to get your fix of steven king and john clancy will cost you 10, love blooms on overstuffed and overlooked sofas. growing despite the bustle and flow of the blind and uncaring consumer bent solely on getting thier next read, “excuse me, could you point me to the section on love.”

“Sure, just past the cafe, on the right hand side after suspense, you’ll know it when you see it.”

Sitting on a dirty sofa across from a dirty dog and an even dirtier friend. I smell the chicken cooking outside. On sale 67 cents per pound. Only a bit longer til it’s done. My mouth begins to water as I wait for my dinner and the dog stares at me with a look of longing. He knows who is in control of his immediate destiny.

Yeah I guess I do too.

“Family guy is on at 11,” Scott says to me smiling through a thick brown tangle of overgrown beard.
Family Guy the staple background programming for more than one of the postcollegiate halfway-houses I have been frequenting the past month. I know where I stay tonight, more importantly where will I stay tommorrow

“Chickens done.”

“Lucky is the family guy…”