9:08:08- I was a composer before I met you. When I didn't know that Tyelenol was a perfect picture world you kept inside your purse. Let us talk about that party where we ate Vegan food, I'm running against the wind through an all inclusive party where your Brother Mother and Dad swore it was the last time since they caught me smoking cigarettes outside on your door steps, and Casey might have been the catalyst but I swear I had no idea that Rainbows came in all shapes and sizes I thought we were just going to go there for one night. Your birthmarks and your radios were playing throughout the summer and I mentioned that I like Marilyn's only after I saw the one laying in your bed, two pillows and a pair of white suspenders our voices suspended in the transition, some blankets and a bathtub to a yelling noise from up the stairs....scream and shout, the cleaning never got done, but the same socks and the same stars, and the same people will wait outside on doorsteps singing songs that you only know because you were introduced to fame by familiars, now is familliar a taste of a texture? The redolence of VapoRub? Or the hypocrisy of open-cakes?
9:08:08- 12:24am. A woman and a postcard met on a street corner. She was not a prostitute in case you were wondering. She was wearing tight purple leggings and a light blue frock that went nicely with the white t-shirt she had underneath the gold necklace around her neck. The post card was from some city she was going to go to once on a train but instead she got off at a different stop. There were some words scribbled on the back, and although she found it on the ground there was something familiar about the words, and not the words so much but the hand writing it was written in, the writing, it looked familiar. She went home after staring at the ground for fifteen whole minutes. When she got back, after she got inside of course, she sat on some orange cushioned bar stools along the counter of her living room/bedroom studio apartment on the West Side, but not a bad part of town, it was just West. She had prepared a cup of Peppermint Tea for herself, but had left it in the microwave too long so she had to sip it really slowly like it was some type of potent apotropaic. Before her third sip, she decided that she was going to go back to the street corner where she had seen the post card, and if it was still there she was going to pick it up with her right hand, because things off the ground should be picked up with your right hand, and if it was there she was going to take it home with her. The street corner was, in fact, the street corner at the end of her street and so she arrived there quite quickly. She looked down at the ground trying to remember exactly where she was standing, it seemed to her that the post card must have moved. She was slightly bummed out, because she had left her Peppermint tea at home to see if the post card was still there, and now had to go back home to her idle life of Arts & Crafts and conversations with friends. When she approached the gate to her apartment building there was a boy outside. He had on a pair of jeans with holes in the knees, blue shoes with white stripes on the sides, they looked like bowling shoes, but she could tell that they weren't, that they were just some style of designer shoes. He had on a cotton t-shirt with a logo on the front, and a worn down baseball cap. She had never seen this boy before, and he was holding her post card, or the post card that she wanted to be hers in his hands. She looked at him in his beautiful green eyes, she believed Green eyes were beautiful not dangerous like brown eyes, but heavy with experience and love. He spoke.
-Abigail?
-How do you know my name? Have I met you before? You're cute, what are you doing here?
-I'm Tom. I sent you this postcard, you didn't get it? You didn't get it.
-You have to put those things in mailboxes if you want them delivered. Obviously you didn't follow the instructions that weren't on the post card.
-Sorry. I wanted to tell you that I liked the way your hair looked, but you leave the house so late, and I'm always out by 7 a.m. so I just wanted to send this over.
-That's sweet. A little awkward, but sweet. I just made some Peppermint Tea, do you want some.
-Love some.
Abigail entered her apartment with a gleam about her, not that she hadn't been happy or excited to be home or to have friends over before, but excited that this boy, this character in her neighborhood had gone the extra length to get in touch with her. He smiled nicely at her in a way she really liked, and she had met other boys before but she really liked him, it was something, and she liked it. She tossed her tea in the sink and prepared two cups of tea for the both of them. Instead of sitting at the bar stools they sat on the futon in her living room. They sat there and talked for several hours, and shortly after the sun went down he had to go home to make dinner for himself. They exchanged personal information and talked of a tea date in the future, after she walked him out she went back and sat on one of the bar stools in her kitchen. She reached for her cup and brought her fresh Peppermint Tea to her lips, took a sip, and found beneath her cup the postcard. The words were illegible even up close, but the writing was still familiar.
Monday, October 6, 2008
9:14:08
9:14:08- 9:21pm. The way you purse your words inside your lips, a special diamond set of dinnerware I feast upon with my eyes. The voice of your 100-acre wood, and instead of forever in the pocket of wallet sized journal, I voice myself in hurt of my inner monologue. For is it not the two of us which dance so eloquently in the silences, our exploding words, sonnet bombs come to mind, our exploding sonnet bombs in the hands we smooth against each other. I cover myself up with my eyes on you, the several cups of tea we share often engaging in the places of our mind we visit together. You are the flavor of night, of covered windows, of empty pillow cases and pain. I vibe off your infusion, the waiting so pale with rage that I angst in the empty to feign the errors of my trials. Like the golden abstinency we smile first name bases running around avoiding details to, and the tea we sip softly 200 degrees of freedom at the rolls of your hips, soaking in the evening light.
I do enjoy fading in the crowns we wear. The thorns of the cold outside concrete cigarette smoking putting us in cold September comatose. The cross-hairs are growing nicely. I find a placebo embroidered at my fingertips, some words pulled off my lips like dead skin growing into fertile history in the making. We play with paper planes the shades of restless Autumn Days, 1000 words so strong my pen bursts at the seams, and I don't close off, avert my glare so bright and blinding my squinting settles sunsets fair.
We make jokes about the passive-aggressive guest, but it cleanses the palette to paint in dreams of kitchen table dinners others wouldn't dare dine at. My skin is raw, naked, and threaded with time, the numbers of my childhood that hang openly on my walls like open wounds I play Candyland around, and even if an offering fell Sartre Rock in the shape of a blind shadow, my soluble goods are forgiving when it comes to the things I put myself through.
Even if I were to stop for the scenery I'm supposed to be sewing into my Native American maize of a storyboard set for two, I wouldn't mind at all not having that Do Not Disturb sign turned around on my eyelids for fifteen more minutes of a sequence of events I'm beginning to thoroughly enjoy.
The advancements catch me in the twist of a spoon around the corduroy tones of clothes that wear out those three boys pushing a dead car down the downtown streets, and I love life I really love it the way the characters are developing, the way the faces come out of the days to vocalize their independent narratives for the moments following my own antithesis of reason, and while the rain may still be coming down tomorrow, and the next forward movement to retreat the door frame is a cup of coffee at the Cafe, I furrow in the lot of company and companionship around the corner, and up the stairs.
9:14:08- 11:26p.m. Before I quiet the mind bank of the over flooded rivers of Binge, and Eagle out the dinner reservations with closed-caption audits, I want to play the erudite binge, and bind my clauses with leather and Red. Were I a broken piece of sea glass to play charades with, or maybe the arenose beachside of the erosive Chicago wind, I may have formulated on the vain attempts of your cinema-expertise, but I find your levers and stars to point state-side; quiet your fucking jaw, keep your hands to yourself, I'm a junkie for my own indiscretion.
How the beasts howl and scream at the hollow white moth of the sky, poor little prairie doves falling from the arc, and I won't, I won't have it, I won't play pause on your inconsideration or your melodramatic roar, if your clothes don't fit, certainly don't push on my yellow walls for sympathy, I'm disgusted by absence. Yours. Is. Appalling.
On the tape deck, with a blue frock raising chaos on the snow white day. The. Fairest. Of. Them. All. Laughter makes perfect a footprint worth talking to, and the noble mien does cometh on the lawn, while the organic sound of after hours holds the glow the pupils don't dare pass. Warming up for heaven's gaze, uncluttered movement of the time, a lesson learned, a song divine.
9:14:08- Later.
A crow.
in a soot covered, black-wheeled broken jawed wheel barrow
shrieked at the tree where the dead squirrel fell.
Buffalo '66
And on that same day
that crow was seen eating at the limbs and beak of another black crow
outside on the dead brown grass
-
I wore a black leather jacket with two patches safety pinned onto it. A James Dean one and a Blue one with a word that can't be read. It seems that he is always more or less in frustration or is frustrated. I feel totally fucked-but in a good way. And it is not a matter of explanation, but rather a statement of exclamation or excitement. And how lovely it is; discombobulation. My eyes are watering all these ideas that've been pouring out of me all day. Totally fucked. But in a great way. Smiley Face. Smiley Face. And I ask what you like about it, what regulates here? The potent states of my adoration.
There are 4's all over my phone. They make me happy. They make me like jewelry and knives. They make me like open fields and burning leaves. They make me like the cold and the rain. They make me like my Mother and a drug dealer I used to have. They make me like urinals and blondes. They make me like throwing up and red shoes. They make me like the jokes and the Padres. They make me like Teddy Rukspin and the Dunce Cap. They make me like masturbating and bedtime stories. They make me like sleeping and real quiet.
In 1984 there was a lot of crying. A lot of people cried in 1984. It was so sad the amount of crying that went on in 1984.
And so....like a porcelain doll with a broken face and a microphone spilling Frank Sinatra all over the fucking living room. I retreat to the cold rain battered air, to stand among the stale names, and smoke a single cigarette before bed.
9:14:08-Even later. I walk down the corridor of my apartment at time of night where all the bedroom doors are shut. My sea legs still swaying from the elevator ride, or maybe the water beneath me.(The Very Bad Things Will Happen Speech) And had there been one more knock of the gavel it may have cured my skin. So, I'm walking in my apartment, all the doors shut, no sounds, except an isolated shriek of the 'L' in the background.
My body is warm under three layers of clothes. They called me the bumble bee. I think it has to do with the $10 top with yellow and black on it. I think that's it. Or maybe it's something else. But I think that's it. It slightly bothered me that kid. That one kid, he bothered me slightly, it was something he did, something he did that bothered me quite a bit. Well, not a lot, but a bit. That kid, something was wrong with him or is wrong with him, but it's cool, whatev...
A man calls himself by the name of his boat
we know that a boat is supposed to be a girls name
but he insists to be called by that name.
We allow it because we've known the man for some time
but after awhile it becomes awkward, we think of this man
in a way you don't want to think of a man, especially
a man you know. We call him, weird.
The 14th of September (Very Late)- I have my MFA in Open Face Surgery. The haunting states of the afterlife. The way the latest hours of night have a way of bringing out your inner child, your inner fears. The dark. The way it still manages to bring out the demons. I still have chills on my skin from evils no man can create, the kind of fear that only the terror of night can create.
It is late. And I still haven't closed the night. The film still running through my ears, over my eyes. And sleep is something that makes me dizzy to think about. It's 3:12am and it's not really even the 14th anymore, I've been lying for quite some time now. Forgive me. Please.
I do enjoy fading in the crowns we wear. The thorns of the cold outside concrete cigarette smoking putting us in cold September comatose. The cross-hairs are growing nicely. I find a placebo embroidered at my fingertips, some words pulled off my lips like dead skin growing into fertile history in the making. We play with paper planes the shades of restless Autumn Days, 1000 words so strong my pen bursts at the seams, and I don't close off, avert my glare so bright and blinding my squinting settles sunsets fair.
We make jokes about the passive-aggressive guest, but it cleanses the palette to paint in dreams of kitchen table dinners others wouldn't dare dine at. My skin is raw, naked, and threaded with time, the numbers of my childhood that hang openly on my walls like open wounds I play Candyland around, and even if an offering fell Sartre Rock in the shape of a blind shadow, my soluble goods are forgiving when it comes to the things I put myself through.
Even if I were to stop for the scenery I'm supposed to be sewing into my Native American maize of a storyboard set for two, I wouldn't mind at all not having that Do Not Disturb sign turned around on my eyelids for fifteen more minutes of a sequence of events I'm beginning to thoroughly enjoy.
The advancements catch me in the twist of a spoon around the corduroy tones of clothes that wear out those three boys pushing a dead car down the downtown streets, and I love life I really love it the way the characters are developing, the way the faces come out of the days to vocalize their independent narratives for the moments following my own antithesis of reason, and while the rain may still be coming down tomorrow, and the next forward movement to retreat the door frame is a cup of coffee at the Cafe, I furrow in the lot of company and companionship around the corner, and up the stairs.
9:14:08- 11:26p.m. Before I quiet the mind bank of the over flooded rivers of Binge, and Eagle out the dinner reservations with closed-caption audits, I want to play the erudite binge, and bind my clauses with leather and Red. Were I a broken piece of sea glass to play charades with, or maybe the arenose beachside of the erosive Chicago wind, I may have formulated on the vain attempts of your cinema-expertise, but I find your levers and stars to point state-side; quiet your fucking jaw, keep your hands to yourself, I'm a junkie for my own indiscretion.
How the beasts howl and scream at the hollow white moth of the sky, poor little prairie doves falling from the arc, and I won't, I won't have it, I won't play pause on your inconsideration or your melodramatic roar, if your clothes don't fit, certainly don't push on my yellow walls for sympathy, I'm disgusted by absence. Yours. Is. Appalling.
On the tape deck, with a blue frock raising chaos on the snow white day. The. Fairest. Of. Them. All. Laughter makes perfect a footprint worth talking to, and the noble mien does cometh on the lawn, while the organic sound of after hours holds the glow the pupils don't dare pass. Warming up for heaven's gaze, uncluttered movement of the time, a lesson learned, a song divine.
9:14:08- Later.
A crow.
in a soot covered, black-wheeled broken jawed wheel barrow
shrieked at the tree where the dead squirrel fell.
Buffalo '66
And on that same day
that crow was seen eating at the limbs and beak of another black crow
outside on the dead brown grass
-
I wore a black leather jacket with two patches safety pinned onto it. A James Dean one and a Blue one with a word that can't be read. It seems that he is always more or less in frustration or is frustrated. I feel totally fucked-but in a good way. And it is not a matter of explanation, but rather a statement of exclamation or excitement. And how lovely it is; discombobulation. My eyes are watering all these ideas that've been pouring out of me all day. Totally fucked. But in a great way. Smiley Face. Smiley Face. And I ask what you like about it, what regulates here? The potent states of my adoration.
There are 4's all over my phone. They make me happy. They make me like jewelry and knives. They make me like open fields and burning leaves. They make me like the cold and the rain. They make me like my Mother and a drug dealer I used to have. They make me like urinals and blondes. They make me like throwing up and red shoes. They make me like the jokes and the Padres. They make me like Teddy Rukspin and the Dunce Cap. They make me like masturbating and bedtime stories. They make me like sleeping and real quiet.
In 1984 there was a lot of crying. A lot of people cried in 1984. It was so sad the amount of crying that went on in 1984.
And so....like a porcelain doll with a broken face and a microphone spilling Frank Sinatra all over the fucking living room. I retreat to the cold rain battered air, to stand among the stale names, and smoke a single cigarette before bed.
9:14:08-Even later. I walk down the corridor of my apartment at time of night where all the bedroom doors are shut. My sea legs still swaying from the elevator ride, or maybe the water beneath me.(The Very Bad Things Will Happen Speech) And had there been one more knock of the gavel it may have cured my skin. So, I'm walking in my apartment, all the doors shut, no sounds, except an isolated shriek of the 'L' in the background.
My body is warm under three layers of clothes. They called me the bumble bee. I think it has to do with the $10 top with yellow and black on it. I think that's it. Or maybe it's something else. But I think that's it. It slightly bothered me that kid. That one kid, he bothered me slightly, it was something he did, something he did that bothered me quite a bit. Well, not a lot, but a bit. That kid, something was wrong with him or is wrong with him, but it's cool, whatev...
A man calls himself by the name of his boat
we know that a boat is supposed to be a girls name
but he insists to be called by that name.
We allow it because we've known the man for some time
but after awhile it becomes awkward, we think of this man
in a way you don't want to think of a man, especially
a man you know. We call him, weird.
The 14th of September (Very Late)- I have my MFA in Open Face Surgery. The haunting states of the afterlife. The way the latest hours of night have a way of bringing out your inner child, your inner fears. The dark. The way it still manages to bring out the demons. I still have chills on my skin from evils no man can create, the kind of fear that only the terror of night can create.
It is late. And I still haven't closed the night. The film still running through my ears, over my eyes. And sleep is something that makes me dizzy to think about. It's 3:12am and it's not really even the 14th anymore, I've been lying for quite some time now. Forgive me. Please.
9:18:08
9:18:08- My cock has a photographic memory, it's name is Martin and it lives on a Rabbit Farm in the rural Czech Republic, it is, a rooster; inandofitself. I traveled North to conquest the Pseudo-E sky and inhibit myself on the lawns of Banks & Alano. The day, if it were a subject of conversation, was filled with single set ear pieces, bright-eyed story telling sequences of gasoline dreams, on the sidewalks of my Portuguese fore-fathers. It wasn't that, but instead was a reference to that, the fore-fathers that is.
I am a shouted whisper in the dark, from one friend to another in corduroy Autumn. Plain train automobile pajamas. I like the flavors, I like their temperatures, the way they feel twisted around the skin, and how they keep me at attention; nothing worse than being bored. It's not that the night was young, but rather that the children were trying to sleep, and plastic masked faces interrupt card-carrying storytellers so often it becomes a treacherous feet to eat at cardboard boxes and homework floats.
Can your boats
on the mountaintops
be the, tip of the tongues
you write your names in
with the inks from your
under legs?
the crab backing
on the
cardboard
exfoliants
by the bathroom trashcan
in the space between the
toilet and the wall.
Will the tomorrow
of your prison brick
be the, candy dance, implore it now,
quite like the shadows of a
chiseled belt of sand
on the wrist
sentenced to a life
of elevator rides
and scarves.
The mice
and
their heart attacks.
written on the walls
written on the walls.
Breakfast, is a waist of time
like the spurious conjugations growing
in the opaque pants pockets
of a genius fit.
Screaming, laughing, fucking, in
the hollow stare
of the moth cloud,
in adoration of us all.
9:18:08- Welcome to the Kingdom of Slay. The faint sense of virile strength embedded on the hands today. Blood on the casket weave trickles heavily from the teeth, and the voice of the undergrowth trails off into the streets. My voice is closed-caption. My extrovert facade is intellectual, collapsible but I point out the differences for your anger to be a part of things that I wish upon a capsule of a substance you use to disappear from me. I am but a man, a child like a boy, and the notes of my substance are more than you can handle, so don't despair while we tourniquet ourselves in the words that force our tongues to close the mouths of our undiscoverable secret telling ear to ear in busy places while mission statements are the mending connections to the things that we're learning most about each other. I am late to the bridle.
9:18:08- 8:50p.m. The points of my return. To society or the analytical moment where my dead eyes fall on the strange black entanglements which capture me like the urn between my legs burying fascination within the facets of my strange infatuation with sequences. I can't wait for the treason. i be a liquidated entrance, the clause, a sent reminder to a song that I play over and over and over again so as to disappear in the stale abyss of featurettes I call my life. My breath is the memory of daggers gone and dead. By these hands of mine filled with piety and strength today, bare knuckled braggarts of the pestilent eve.
Oh, how the beasts
squawk and toddle
tip-toeing over
cement factories, in the prurient moonlight.
Watch them in their silks and tapestries of the brain
carrying on in quids and cynicisms.
Their electric mouths beckoning out
to the folds of the sheath
its lines withdrawn and aching nurture
there on the street
where my pupils learn to watch them pass.
9:18:08- 9:35p.m. My sheriff love is profuse. Like the diligent escape plans I execute constantly. Were I the piece of gum which beds itself to your inner-gum so well, you might say I'm an adverb for association, but it is my word which heals the head, my name which blinds your eyes, my lungs which steal the voice from out your lips. Forgetting about the 2nd grade my colors are more than a million.
The State of Gein. Hunger much more than verb to the raise, the rise is more clearly than the binding which struggles to overcome the cryptic additives, an accent on the skin towards a belt of leather which wears itself so surreptitiously it might be called a State.
I am a shouted whisper in the dark, from one friend to another in corduroy Autumn. Plain train automobile pajamas. I like the flavors, I like their temperatures, the way they feel twisted around the skin, and how they keep me at attention; nothing worse than being bored. It's not that the night was young, but rather that the children were trying to sleep, and plastic masked faces interrupt card-carrying storytellers so often it becomes a treacherous feet to eat at cardboard boxes and homework floats.
Can your boats
on the mountaintops
be the, tip of the tongues
you write your names in
with the inks from your
under legs?
the crab backing
on the
cardboard
exfoliants
by the bathroom trashcan
in the space between the
toilet and the wall.
Will the tomorrow
of your prison brick
be the, candy dance, implore it now,
quite like the shadows of a
chiseled belt of sand
on the wrist
sentenced to a life
of elevator rides
and scarves.
The mice
and
their heart attacks.
written on the walls
written on the walls.
Breakfast, is a waist of time
like the spurious conjugations growing
in the opaque pants pockets
of a genius fit.
Screaming, laughing, fucking, in
the hollow stare
of the moth cloud,
in adoration of us all.
9:18:08- Welcome to the Kingdom of Slay. The faint sense of virile strength embedded on the hands today. Blood on the casket weave trickles heavily from the teeth, and the voice of the undergrowth trails off into the streets. My voice is closed-caption. My extrovert facade is intellectual, collapsible but I point out the differences for your anger to be a part of things that I wish upon a capsule of a substance you use to disappear from me. I am but a man, a child like a boy, and the notes of my substance are more than you can handle, so don't despair while we tourniquet ourselves in the words that force our tongues to close the mouths of our undiscoverable secret telling ear to ear in busy places while mission statements are the mending connections to the things that we're learning most about each other. I am late to the bridle.
9:18:08- 8:50p.m. The points of my return. To society or the analytical moment where my dead eyes fall on the strange black entanglements which capture me like the urn between my legs burying fascination within the facets of my strange infatuation with sequences. I can't wait for the treason. i be a liquidated entrance, the clause, a sent reminder to a song that I play over and over and over again so as to disappear in the stale abyss of featurettes I call my life. My breath is the memory of daggers gone and dead. By these hands of mine filled with piety and strength today, bare knuckled braggarts of the pestilent eve.
Oh, how the beasts
squawk and toddle
tip-toeing over
cement factories, in the prurient moonlight.
Watch them in their silks and tapestries of the brain
carrying on in quids and cynicisms.
Their electric mouths beckoning out
to the folds of the sheath
its lines withdrawn and aching nurture
there on the street
where my pupils learn to watch them pass.
9:18:08- 9:35p.m. My sheriff love is profuse. Like the diligent escape plans I execute constantly. Were I the piece of gum which beds itself to your inner-gum so well, you might say I'm an adverb for association, but it is my word which heals the head, my name which blinds your eyes, my lungs which steal the voice from out your lips. Forgetting about the 2nd grade my colors are more than a million.
The State of Gein. Hunger much more than verb to the raise, the rise is more clearly than the binding which struggles to overcome the cryptic additives, an accent on the skin towards a belt of leather which wears itself so surreptitiously it might be called a State.
9:29:08
9:29:08-12:03p.m.
I moved like a compass
through the degenerative darkness
while my singles changed into mercy ramps
leading up to a place where flags live
If I could capture what it meant
to be a kid, does apple juice describe it well
the torn blue jeans and t-shirt that I wore to a party
and the people I saw there
Just like an excerpt you could taste with your fingers
if you put them through my hair
all the candles decanted
the couch cushions remodeled to look like
no one was ever here
I moved like a compass
through the degenerative darkness
while my singles changed into mercy ramps
leading up to a place where flags live
If I could capture what it meant
to be a kid, does apple juice describe it well
the torn blue jeans and t-shirt that I wore to a party
and the people I saw there
Just like an excerpt you could taste with your fingers
if you put them through my hair
all the candles decanted
the couch cushions remodeled to look like
no one was ever here
9:30:08
9:30:08- Supposed to be dinnertime. The autumn months have voices that shake like the tires of a Lexus. They like me. I lie to me. On this couch I can write for hours, the cushion has a dictionary sewn into it's threads, the armrests and ottoman contain anecdote and thesaurus.
How can I like someone I don't want to know I'm vulnerable, someone that might even die in breath? the Hearts of Palms. the abandonment of Love. The Stages of Being Lonely astonish me.
9:30:08-11:04pm. Smoking the last bit of a slow pull Marlboro, watching a bald bitter man in a yellow plastic slacked rain blazer drink Coca-Cola from a bottle, slouched back behind a pillow of steel. My observations bleed through the four layers of clothes I wrestle with on this night of New Years thinking of things so sequentially not of this September. Notices & Accusations. Good Things come in two's while bad things come all the time.
The music so loud I shrug off the stares from silent passerby passengers which neatly represent the Hemispheres of the world, a wallet sized postcard I'm still sending to you. Opalescent Phosphorous. Heavy-hitting sarcasm of the 3rd-Reich, all memoirs and serenades. The driver of the 2nd car wasn't named in the paper, but we can assume he doesn't sleep well e(I)ther.
These candles humor the shadows of skin, while eleven o' clock has it's cannibals, has it's mediocre friendships, the disappearing woman standing in the nape of the hallway in the solid bold colored yellow dress. Her name is carved on the words of something a stranger said to her in passing. Moves me unusually towards colors I've liked before.
Please don't make me cry, there is no one left to know. Better to meet on rooftops cleaning gutters pre-doorbell ringing than twin-boothed fancy dinner date. White flagged warnings of the optimal surrender exploding with the fragments of chivalrous courtesy and polite colognes we wear to cover up the scents of our stale actualities. The rough jagged jaw of the human race decayed.
They recognize me by the blue isosceles smile coursing its way across my face, fourteen minutes of track playing over and again on a rooftop. I think of migraine headaches, of ice packs and Ralpax, of pillow cases and blue gatorade. Dearest ******** where hath thou gone? At this point it. is. hilarious. spelling bees and wife beaters. In asking about sour tear jerkers, stale cigarette smoke, and a hot tub outside in a backyard probably around the same time as this(impressed) because the following I have has earned me enough credit to travel first class in a Sprite vessel with hair under my arms, pennies in my pocket. Hurt much? the question mark is symbolic of endowed emptiness not sexuality, trampled under Alaska feasting at discipline on the freeway, I'm full up of words, like a dictionary junkie again I am, so curse me with your black magic, woman I'm so good at what I'm not doing to you anymore. Hot in herr, doktor. I imagine the two of us-stranger & I standing up and dancing through the aisles of the train like an expedited iPod commercial that breeds travel efficiency and feeling good through aesthetic musical preference all at the same time. Just can't stop talking about Love.
Transitions on the Monopoly Board. We travel over stop lights, lost dry cleaning, parked cars, cannibalism, and pharmaceutical riots. The empty shifts keep smiling, but the water hasn't followed our faces from out of our socks. There isn't anything I don't do, nothing I won't do, listen, move, slur verses like it was high school D & D and not pockets of gold fetid furnaces soft to crowns of Midas lips, but how I like those, more listening style of the anatomy expert, my advertisements come with $30 covers, not under but over used the truth is I fail to yield at esoteric speech, my sarcasm precedes me like two disaster victims in the heavy shawls feasting on the tallow of white lies and horse tranquilizers. Lying is as kitsch as hand grenades and plastic, I'd laugh out loud but your bologna sandwich has already begun decomposing the things I liked most about you, and there's just nothing funny left to speak of. Birds and Tucsons. You get me yet. Genuflect in my general direction while I buy you a cup of coffee for my stone age chivalry. Hooded red devils speaking French in the category of goodness so basic that if I were a word on a piece of yellow dress i might unwind with a quiet film or a quiet dance. Think foxtrot or waltz......but who's counting.
How can I like someone I don't want to know I'm vulnerable, someone that might even die in breath? the Hearts of Palms. the abandonment of Love. The Stages of Being Lonely astonish me.
9:30:08-11:04pm. Smoking the last bit of a slow pull Marlboro, watching a bald bitter man in a yellow plastic slacked rain blazer drink Coca-Cola from a bottle, slouched back behind a pillow of steel. My observations bleed through the four layers of clothes I wrestle with on this night of New Years thinking of things so sequentially not of this September. Notices & Accusations. Good Things come in two's while bad things come all the time.
The music so loud I shrug off the stares from silent passerby passengers which neatly represent the Hemispheres of the world, a wallet sized postcard I'm still sending to you. Opalescent Phosphorous. Heavy-hitting sarcasm of the 3rd-Reich, all memoirs and serenades. The driver of the 2nd car wasn't named in the paper, but we can assume he doesn't sleep well e(I)ther.
These candles humor the shadows of skin, while eleven o' clock has it's cannibals, has it's mediocre friendships, the disappearing woman standing in the nape of the hallway in the solid bold colored yellow dress. Her name is carved on the words of something a stranger said to her in passing. Moves me unusually towards colors I've liked before.
Please don't make me cry, there is no one left to know. Better to meet on rooftops cleaning gutters pre-doorbell ringing than twin-boothed fancy dinner date. White flagged warnings of the optimal surrender exploding with the fragments of chivalrous courtesy and polite colognes we wear to cover up the scents of our stale actualities. The rough jagged jaw of the human race decayed.
They recognize me by the blue isosceles smile coursing its way across my face, fourteen minutes of track playing over and again on a rooftop. I think of migraine headaches, of ice packs and Ralpax, of pillow cases and blue gatorade. Dearest ******** where hath thou gone? At this point it. is. hilarious. spelling bees and wife beaters. In asking about sour tear jerkers, stale cigarette smoke, and a hot tub outside in a backyard probably around the same time as this(impressed) because the following I have has earned me enough credit to travel first class in a Sprite vessel with hair under my arms, pennies in my pocket. Hurt much? the question mark is symbolic of endowed emptiness not sexuality, trampled under Alaska feasting at discipline on the freeway, I'm full up of words, like a dictionary junkie again I am, so curse me with your black magic, woman I'm so good at what I'm not doing to you anymore. Hot in herr, doktor. I imagine the two of us-stranger & I standing up and dancing through the aisles of the train like an expedited iPod commercial that breeds travel efficiency and feeling good through aesthetic musical preference all at the same time. Just can't stop talking about Love.
Transitions on the Monopoly Board. We travel over stop lights, lost dry cleaning, parked cars, cannibalism, and pharmaceutical riots. The empty shifts keep smiling, but the water hasn't followed our faces from out of our socks. There isn't anything I don't do, nothing I won't do, listen, move, slur verses like it was high school D & D and not pockets of gold fetid furnaces soft to crowns of Midas lips, but how I like those, more listening style of the anatomy expert, my advertisements come with $30 covers, not under but over used the truth is I fail to yield at esoteric speech, my sarcasm precedes me like two disaster victims in the heavy shawls feasting on the tallow of white lies and horse tranquilizers. Lying is as kitsch as hand grenades and plastic, I'd laugh out loud but your bologna sandwich has already begun decomposing the things I liked most about you, and there's just nothing funny left to speak of. Birds and Tucsons. You get me yet. Genuflect in my general direction while I buy you a cup of coffee for my stone age chivalry. Hooded red devils speaking French in the category of goodness so basic that if I were a word on a piece of yellow dress i might unwind with a quiet film or a quiet dance. Think foxtrot or waltz......but who's counting.
10:3:08
10:3:08-2:56am.
Because it can't be ascertained or accepted
like a treaty that hasn't been signed or
blankets still folded, the way a nest is one-fold
before the twigs build up causeways
It is so wing'd but golden crisp
azure-wound and how the aching belle of her
hips sway of the scene make the sky ward
a shape of sleep so worth staring at into darkness
for the nature of birds is the motion, absent number nine to five
safe for the solstic motion
Were the street-worms sloth spectacle
to written verb sleuth of point and piceous
risen piston and stamina of the apotropaic symphony,
dropped into a wishing well, some postcards written out already
and a silver star of some research worked out well
9:28:08
I brought Marigolds home around my neck
and matched vases filled with
Umbers and Alizarins.
And it was real
not trying too hard to figure 8
or 20, letting down the hand rails
to write addresses without decimal points and
counting up to sayings better left undone of the things
I didn't do.
Breakfast table conversations of the afternoon
around reading riots and slow graze basketball
I didn't care much for, but to be scene with grace
like 4's could be like I never knew
I just felt solid to be so pedestal, so inarticulate and smile
10:5:08-5:44p.m. The sensual sensations which I discovered in the night, legs wrapped around the wrists while my fingers gently filled themselves with soft skins of the natural aspects, worked the plumbing deep inside my own discovery, pursed cursed words screaming in the gutteral silence of my deepest thoughts, treats of the tip toeing quiet ice trickling down the subtle sustenance of a dark widowed city light filled room where two shaping shadows fill the walls with the echoing movements, motions like this paid homage to on a Saturday while words were met with grooved locations of the dances slash heeling so necessity that a man and woman could come so close to divine that the rights were just a feeling of an hour.
The acanthine shapes of the autumn that call a friend, the words that I repeat in succession over the scattered captions of titles that I'm putting around things that haven't been shared apart I am the voice of a reverb, a taste and a texture, listen to me the state of things. I. Am. Word. I love the salivac accentuation of the purring words which slur themselves from your lips, us both stripped of twilight lux, so curving towards the rising sun, a material of both of us creeped into night.
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