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kafka had it right
we're all made of riches
by daniel castro

The drunkard and his spat with the moon, as he recalls Franz Kafka scenarios and makes a mental note of future bookstore purchases, oblivious to the sound of the creeping dawn behind his back. He tells her he's not afraid of her. He attempts to strip her of a name and deconstruct her and make her nothing but a glowing ball smack dab in the middle of an inkblot sky. A stain that's been corroded by the rise and fall of dawn and dusk and weary eyes staring into them.

He starts to see the creeping orange-purple-pink of the morning take over, and the moon beginning to disappear. And he felt as if he, too, would fade into thin air that very moment.

The drunkard, lamenting his mutability.
The drunkard, resenting his malleability.

The St. Patrick's day rush is subsiding and trickling down the sidewalk as the last of the still-open bars blue out their neon welcome signs. He's pawing on a winter coat and giggling into a cellphone like a child on a sugar rush. A wild, rambling, lunatic spoiled child with a dream to plug. And he's speaking of tomorrows (when will they ever come?) with a passion so feverish and consuming you'd think he's peered into them and seen what's coming. He runs across the streets with her in his hand and watches her become a shrinking flower. He pokes her in the arm.

When they're met by friends' calls to go, weary voices aching for the comfort of a warm pillow, they oblige. They climb into the back of a car and he looks out the window, the sudden warmth breeze of the upcoming spring hitting his face and permeating his every being. And suddenly everything clears up and he sees things as clearly as they've ever been. It's all a knot to tie and untie, to clear and unclear. It's due procedure to erode and decompose and mutate. And our beauty gets old with us.

The drunkard, now overwhelmed and impassioned and drunk and happy, reaches over and cranks the stereo and sings along to whatever song is playing. And she, being overwhelmed and impassioned and drunk and happy, sees him and sings along with him. They don't know the song, but they sing anyway. The words are all wrong and the rhythm is off and the keys go all over the place because they're learning as they're singing. It's dissonant. Wildly unmelodic. But beautiful.

It's that short and completely tranquil pause between night and day during which, unexpectedly, the head hangs loose from the neck. During which, unexpectedly, everything falls into silence. Maybe that's what we don't realize and what disappears later in that moment in which we are by ourselves with our bodies twisted and we look around and see nothing, and feel no resistance in the air, but hold on to the idea that, at a certain distance, there are houses with rooftops and happily angular chimneys through which the darkness slides into the houses, crossing through the living rooms and spilling into all the different rooms. And it's lucky for us that tomorrow it'll be a day in which, as incredible as it seems, you'll be able to see everything.


Great, outgoing guy in his mid 20's. Works and parties hard. Obsessed with music. Oh wait, this isn't match.com

more about daniel castro


for what it was and what could have been.
the pains of love.
by daniel castro
topic: writing
published: 6.20.03


dan gonzalez
5.18.07 @ 12:57a

Fuckin'-A Bubba. Good, poetic stuff.

daniel castro
10.13.08 @ 11:52a



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