Untitled - Original (Isaac Simons)





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Published on Aug 17, 2011

The plane ride to Boston was going to be long and arduous.
I was seated between a woman who had the disconcerting habit of humming to herself- ballads from the Celine Dion catalogue, mostly- and a man who probably should have been checked with the oversized luggage.
I had tried to hold the entire row for my entourage, but like a good musician/actor I'd procrastinated in reserving my seats and ended up peering down the aisle toward the first-class section in envy. Occasionally a shaved black head and a doughy mound of frosting would clink glasses and peer back at me, laughing gleefully.
I felt a poke from the seat behind me.
"Hey, ehh... Why they get to sit upa there?" The Midget Candyman was squirming in his seat, reaching his grubby finger between cushions to tap an aggravated rhythm into the back of my head.
I sighed heavily, angered, exhausted. "I don't know," I told him. "They've been with me longer. You're new to the drop-boxes this week. ...plus they remembered to reserve in advance." I tried to recline my seatback but the Candyman shoved it back upright with a huff. He was strong for his size.
"But ehh, you mention me inna da video! You no go mention eh Old Spice or Muffin Man, ya?" He was bouncing frantically now, disturbing his neighbors.
"Yeah, I did. I sang about the Muffin Man, actually."
"Eh..." The Candyman pulled at his moustache and coughed in his hand.
"You know, you're not what I was expecting when I mentioned a midget candyman," I confessed. "And what are you, anyway- Hispanic? Jamaican?
"You wanna gumdrop?" he offered suddenly.
"Yeah, sure. Why not."
Suddenly the guilty ding of the stewardess button began ringing like a wild cowbell. The Candyman was jamming it into the roof using both hands simultaneously. The woman beside him shifted nervously.
"What're you doing?!" I turned, trying to slap his hands away.
"I ask a lady for gumdrop. Gumdrop an' a pixie stick."
"Shhh..." I tried to silence him. "Shh..."
"PIXIE STICK!!!" he wailed.
"Sir," the stewardess leaned over me, issuing a stern look. "Sir, can you calm your child please."
"No no no- he's not my child," I laughed, embarrassed. "He's just my creation."
She raised a plucked eyebrow as though assessing a madman. The effect was palpable. "Also," she continued in a professional tone, "there's a man made of cake in first-class who says you're paying for his headphones and cocktails. And a black man beside him who wants me to tell you that he's on a plane."
"...I'm on a plane!..." echoed his smooth baritone down the cabin.
I massaged my temples as the Candyman began to tug on the Hostess' skirt. He had unbuckled himself and climbed into the aisle.
I made a mental note: from here on out, nothing but quiet masseuses and affable assistants in my drop-boxes.
I rubbed my temples in circular motions.
...it was going to be a long flight.

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Untitled (lyrics- in progress...)

A man beside a church, He lived his life right by the book, he said
Now buried in the dirt, He made it seem like nothing hurt at all

I wanna die a man expired
A drunk decay, a raging fire
The lust, the hate
The heat, the flame I can't escape...

You shimmer in your dress, Your beauty something I cannot explain
Sweet as hell and half to death, There's a ghost climbing this old train track now

I wanna die a man complete
The good, the bad, the high, the heat
Beneath the saint,
The cheat and all the cheap complaints...

Lying mouth-to-mouth,
And kiss-to-kiss within the darkness
Silent shout- Too late, too late! We have forgotten
Our way out, Words we spoke and
Whispered softly
We build our house of cardboard,
Make our plans of air...

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