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.