Friday, February 27, 2009

The Off Season

We breathe fresh air in the off season, continually reminding one another that there are only three months left... No wait, two months and twenty-nine days... No wait, one week. Needless to say time passes faster and slower depending on what kind of interval we want to lose ourselves in. We're smudges on glass sometimes, or corrupt structures dedicated to rapists and bored sociopaths. Our sacred cows have lost interest in grazing, and so they quickly pack their bags and head off in another, much more structured directions.
These big city lights are like the bloodshot eyeballs they keep awake. Sometimes the lids drift back down across the frame, but sooner than later spark back up again as if there is no rest or relaxation, here, there or anywhere. Nevertheless, we all grow use to the long lines in front of the cabins. We sense and share the same pain as the wood that is meticulously glued together. The toothpicks between our teeth, scream indifference, and are flipped back and forth, up and down, side to side, ten times more alive than the reminders of the way things once were, before our souls lost their way.
We know the direction of things to come, though, as if all their predictions were as solid as the roots, that occasionally dry up, but nevertheless stand tall in the off season. We love to love in the off season, and don't mind the dirt in-between our fingernails. Its presence underneath the white means we're growing just like the crops that are chopped down and replanted. We extend our hands like the leaves and stocks. We buy and sell our fingers, communicating through movements and resonating sounds from the ground up.
Those that are listening don't necessarily pay all that much attention to us, as sooner than later, once the dust settles, they come to the realization that they are exactly like us, and soon are patiently awaiting for their own vacation away from the gravel. They want to swim around in our overflowing pool of thought. They want to be pragmatic flowers, resting easy in vases and sometimes withering when it's time to go back to work.
Oh, but the off season. The wonderful off season. It whispers to us, passionate secrets that we all need to hear. Shh... Don't tell anybody, but I think I may have found a way out of here.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

A Brief Expression of Youth

She awoke heavy lidded, head pounding, the taste of alcohol still on her tongue. The sun shone bright and obtrusive through the large, bare window opposite the bed she was lying in. Moving boxes cluttered the floor and written on the was the word "bedroom" and the name "Lacey" in bold, black permanent marker.
"Where am I?" she asked herself
She rubbed her eyes with careful pressure, yawned and looked lazily to her right. Startled, she gasped and jumped expeditiously out of bed, confused with a heavy weight in her stomach.
Lying next to her was a female form; soft white legs, small features, exposed-round breasts.
"What the fuck happened last night?", she wondered while studying the girl.
Quiet, with conscious movement, she made her way to the door, turned the nob slowly, and walked into the hall clutching at her breasts a leopard print sheet that told of the previous nights affair. Looking around for any sign of life she ran on her tip-toes stealthily into the bathroom, shut and locked the door behind her and collapsed against it.
"I couldn't have...did I really? I wonder if it was...", she stammered aloud
Steadying herself and pressing her cold feet into the azure rug she walked to the sink, head down, afraid to meet her own gaze in the mirror. She stood for several minutes staring into the white porcelain sink trying to recall the night before, running over and over in her mind "Lacey...Lacey...Lacey...".
With the courage of a possum she lifted her head and met her own reflection. She observed the way her hair was pushed this way and that and the heavy make-up smeared beneath her eyes; it was obvious she had enjoyed the rendezvous. Young and pale she stood before the mirror changed in a way she never could have imagined.
She let go of the sheet she was still unconsciously clutching against her body and observed how thin she had become. It was more than a month since she had eaten anything more than a slice of bread of a piece of fruit. She marveled at the manner in which her collar bone protruded and ribs stuck out, a testament to her struggle. Tracing with her finger from breast to navel, navel to hips, she noticed how bruised her hips were; trying to focus on the purple circles beneath her dermis, rather than the scars that mapped her thighs.
Trying to avert her attention out of the bathroom window to the cars rushing by, still standing naked before the mirror, she began to weep.
How had she come to this place; not only the night before, but in life? She didn't know herself any more; loud, flamboyant, throwing herself at anyone who took courage to show her the least bit of attention. She was drinking now more than ever; vodka, whiskey, gin, beer, anything to numb the pain and quiet the noise inside her head.

As she turned on the leaky faucet the water ran cold and languidly down the drain. She cupped her hands like she was awaiting communion and let the water fill them slowly. Lowering her frail frame she splashed her face with the cold water as if baptizing herself to be absolved of her sins. Bracing herself against the sink she felt her legs go numb and stomach turn; she knew she was more sick than she let on, and no one could take away the pain she was hiding.

"I've got to get out of here before she wakes", she told herself.
Leaving the sheet in a pile on the bathroom floor she walked naked and confident across the hall back into the Lion's den; the room that previously witnessed tangled legs and entwined bodies moving with the rhythm of a sacred dance.
She collected her things from the floor, and slipping into her favorite blue dress she moved quietly, careful not to wake the body that now knew hers so well.
Boots on, bag slung over her shoulder she smoothed down her short blond hair and grabbed her sweater from a chair. And just before leaving the room she looked back over her shoulder one last time at the girl lying in the bed and thought,
"At least she was beautiful".

Early to bloom, quick to wilt.

She was getting as far away from him as possible, and who could blame her? He'll never, ever change. She needed to tell herself that again. Looking in the mirror, her eyes still dark with yesterday's face, she repeated her mantra of defiance, of escape - escape from the snare-laden city of his charm: 'He'll never, ever change. Just leave. Leave right now! Leave right now and don't ever, ever look back. Because he's never, ever going to change.' With wiggling toes and fists that couldn't be clenched tight enough she felt like she almost had it, almost believed it. If she closed her eyes, sealed them shut in the deepest darkness she could imagine, she could almost get it. Seeing his impassive, half-smirking face floating in the creosote of her memory she knew she could do it. If she had to, she could do it.

Traffic was really beginning to pick up outside his window and he was just opening his eyes, but he'd spent most of the night awake, or in some state that rendered him vulnerable, but not rested. He noticed a persistent scratching at his door, so he got up and let his roommate's cat in. Immediately the cat started weaving in and out of his legs and purring loudly and biting his knees until he picked the animal up and rubbed its belly and kissed its forehead and mauled it with rough love like his mother used to tell him not to. There was still that persistent scratching, though. Not at the door, of course, but of somewhere in the back of his thoughts, like the sound of an alarm that invades a dream. It had kept him awake all night, this phantom notion. Probably just need a shower or something, he thought. So he dropped the cat on his bed next to the still sleeping lump of covers - now growing bare, milky thighs in the morning light - and, as quietly as he could move his heavy, uncoordinated, slightly hung-over self, made his way to the bathroom, cat in tow.

The hot water felt good on her aching neck, relaxed the tension in her shoulders a little. She wouldn't miss its fleeting heat, though. Nor the mold stains around the ceiling. God, she nearly dislocated her shoulder trying to scrub those out. He took one look at them and said: 'Fuck that. You'll only be in this house for a year, that shit won't hurt you.' Of all his faces, apathy was his most handsome, at least his most fitting. Though she'd never seen him wear many others, so it was impossible and unfair to say for sure. But no matter how long she kept the world hidden behind closed eyes, no matter how far away she moved, she'd never forget his smile. His bared teeth, just crooked enough for character; his predatory eyes, glowing with deceit and - what is merely to him - mischief; his breath, still sweet with the taste of a recent meal. And she never knew him to go hungry.

When he opened the creaking bathroom door, the cat was waiting for him in the windowsill, licking its paws, looking more bored than hygienically concerned. He stopped for a moment to love it. 'Hey, buddy. Hey, buddyboy. How ya doin'? Huh? How ya doin', buddy?' Pacing back and forth on the windowsill, a rattling din in a tiny chest, arching its back to follow his hand, the cat was overcome with happiness. A word popped into his head: 'enraptured.' I'll have to remember to use that, he thought, and made his way back to his bedroom, leaving his friend on the windowsill clawing at his turned back, broken-hearted, forgotten.

She got in her car, sparked the ignition, put her hands on the steering wheel, bit her lower lip, wiggled her cold toes inside her shoes, blinked, cleared her throat, blinked again - harder this time, squeezed the steering wheel, blinked again, tried to swallow, but the lump wouldn't budge, and burst into tears. Folded over herself, elbows on the wheel, engine running, face buried in her hands, sobbing damn near uncontrollably. 'Fuck you! I would've gladly abandoned everything for you, you fuck! You selfish fuck!' She screamed her curses and hexes into the warming car, feeling safe behind the tinted windows, soundproof doors; feeling safe knowing that by tomorrow she'd be a resident of this city only on paper. She just wished she'd inflicted something on him, scarred him in some way. But she hadn't. No one ever had, no one ever will, she divined. And she looked out her car window, at the house she lived in for a year, the colorless sky above. She saw him walking up the street to meet her for the first time after they'd talked on the phone for so long. He'd been so eager to meet her. Couldn't wait 'til she moved to the city. Couldn't believe how wonderfully fortuitous it all was. He was sure it had to mean something. And yet it only amounted to a few nights of, admittedly, great sex, some writings she was certain weren't even about her, and a pile of unfinished movies and books he'd recommended her.

Standing in his room, dressed, lightly cologned, with his shoes on, not sure what to do about the girl whose name he couldn't remember in his bed. He wrote her a note, called her 'Lovely' in it. Said he had some urgent errands to run, he'd be back in just a little while. If she had things she needed to do and had to leave, he'd understand. If she was here by the time he got back, he'd like to take her for coffee. He signed it: 'Won't be long, John,' and hurried out the door. Hoped he wasn't too late.

Enough tears to negate the ten minutes she'd spent putting her face on, several deep breaths, and a atring of curses and hexes later, and she felt like she was ready to leave it all behind her. Just shift the car into drive and gun it and never look back. She'd tied up all her loose ends except for the one: a record, Bruce Springsteen's Nebraska, sitting on her porch. She'd texted him last night and told him to come get it if he wanted it back. Told him she'd be leaving at 10am, and if he wanted to say good-by to come before then. If he couldn't make it, she'd understand and would just leave it on the porch. Of course he didn't reply. It was pretty late in the night and she knew his habits. She looked out her car window again for one last look at the house she had once fatuously called home, and noticed the record was gone.

Her car was still there, so that was a good sign, he thought. He didn't notice it was running; just picked up the record and went in without knocking, like he always did. Almost immediately he could tell no one was home, but called her name anyway. No answer. Why was the door unlocked? He went back outside and saw that she was just stepping out of her car.

'Hey, you! How are ya?'
'I must've forgotten to lock the door.'
'Wouldn't be the first time, ha ha!'
'No, but it'll be the last.'

A brief hug.

'That's right. You're headin' back to sunshine and sandy beaches today, huh?'
'Yep, I'm all done with school, and going back home to recoup for awhile.'
'Can't say I blame ya. This city can get rough. Winters here, especially.'

She didn't know what to say to him. She just stood there, blinking, wiggling her toes, trying as hard as she could to not let a single emotion slip past her. But his fucking tone of voice, that smug look on his face, the way he was treating her! God, it was enough to make her claw his eyes out, stomp his face into the ground, punt him square in his big, ugly balls!

'You know, I was thinking this morning in the shower about you and me and how we met. That was really something, wasn't it? Not many people are lucky enough to have such a chance encounter. And I know we don't really talk anymore, but I really think we've got a chemistry, you and me, and it'd be a shame to just let that vanish, so let's definitely stay in touch. Okay? For real, let's stay in touch. You're always going to be important to me. You'll always be an important part of my life. We can't let that slip us by. You know what I mean? We're really lucky to have met and I think it's important to never forget that. We absolutely must keep in touch. Promise me we will. You've got to promise to write and call and let me know anytime something even slightly worthwhile happens. I'm going to miss you. I really am. I'm gonna miss your laugh, and your tiny hands, and your vegan lasagna, and your never-failing upbeat attitude. You're like the happiest person I've ever met, you realize? I've always envied your indefatigable sunny disposition. It's like you're . . . you're just enraptured by life. That's so amazing. I feel so lucky to have met someone like you. So, please, promise me you'll write and call. Okay?'

'You know, you are so full of shit.'

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

No longer am I a romantic man. Seizing the weakest upheaval by remaining lost in abundant glory. There is no match that will set fire to my name. No ridiculing that will perpetuate the utmost respect from my own garden of dismay. Dismantling the soldiers; a quandary meditating. Forbear the last publication. Bronze the defeated. Bronze me.
I hear the morning speak something prose
while I watch you fuck some favorite colors.
you say,
"the light touches the same things,
and she's left with rainbow fingertips.
her fingerprints are left on the morning--
they're those favorite colors
of ordinary morning rainbows,
and the same people I've seen."
He remembers the look as she said no, before rolling over and falling asleep. He then spent the next two hours or so rolling around, trying to get situated in a bed that was so much softer every other night of the week. They parted the next day like neighbors in the grocery store, refraining from much gossip so as to better assess the good and bad bananas. He stopped thinking about all that did and didn't happen until the occasional reminders suddenly struck at a particularly creative point in his life as if everyone had been mercilessly plotting to bring him back down to the way he once was, when it was easier to be so unapologetically casual.
He then started to live his way like she had taught him. Quick and forward movements from bedpost to barstool, not saying much of anything important, but still trying harder than most to ignore the sound of his own conscience coughing up public service announcements meant soley for his viewing pleasure. This is wrong, but enjoyable. This isn't love, but no one is really sure if love even exists anymore. Research on said habits has proven inconsequencial. Nobody knows what they're doing, and so you mine as well be lost like the rest of them
These minor strokes of denial and fruitless flattery eventually wore thinner than the torn pair of blue jeans he had on that one night it all made sense before it didn't, and now, without any clear and levelheaded stroke of genius to fall back on, he blogs for the sake of his own jumbled brain, creating nameless faces out of thin air to help better illustrate his ultimate point. We're all alone on the days we try to tell ourselves otherwise, but every once in awhile, the weight of the hours will surprise us.

"You don't believe all of this shit, do you?"
"Not exactly. I mean, I guess I like pretending to believe on occasion. It's the same reason children write out their Christmas lists well into their thirties."
"That's unhealthy behavior, though, don't you think?"
"Unhealthy is the new normal."
"Oh... right..."

beatin' alive at 145

"That's some weak shit," you tell yourself as you hang up on him. Again, you are talking to yourself.
A stranger sat on my couch wearing a dumb hat and lied through his teeth tonight and I just watched him.
I pretend to like to sleep with almost strangers, but really it scares the shit out of me. It makes me sick, actually. Sex is sensational. Sex is sensationalized. Sex is bullshit, most times. "Why would you have sex with me if you don't even know me?"
I guess if you have to ask that question, you're not gonna get laid much in life.
There are many different types of women. Some women like to think they are strong because they'll never let a man hurt them.
But to be broken, on your knees, because of a man, is better than what they tried to tell me finding God will be like.
And you can say that if you're a woman, and you won't be weak. You will believe that you are weak. But just because he is a man and you are a woman and you are broken, does not mean that you are done.
When it finally fell all the way to the ground and cracked, I was standing up and shouting to yellow leaves, begging to be them. They didn't answer and the rain fell soft, while I was only waiting for a thunderstorm.
And I know I sang with angels, looking down upon him, but when he's searchin, fumbling around in the dark, searching for other lightswitches, all you can do is watch. Can't change nothin', can't move mountains like your heart says you can. Certainly can't move a man.

I let a stranger who asked to fuck me sit on my couch tonight.
I tried to like his looks he gave me, but I couldn't stop thinking about how dumb he was.
Fools and friends both, have told me that I lost it. My wandering, my dreamy intentions of constant exploration. I don't expect this to mean anything to you. And I don't expect to ever be anything to anyone anymore.
But I guess I could say that I'm not done walkin tru the woods.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Variables on Used Pieces of Accommodation

The scars still show; remnants of the time he decided to change the room back to the way it was, before she said that it would look better with this HERE. He didn't give it much thought then, and yet couldn't stop thinking about it as he attempted to revert everything back to the way it once was; turning chairs and ottomans slightly off center, just to better suit his fluctuating brain. He had to buy another pack of band-aids just to help stop the bleeding on his arms and fingers, from the exposed nails on the wall and by the left arm rest of the couch.
The random scratches didn't necessarily sting quite as bad as they had in the past, and in that same vain, he knew that in time, they would all eventually heal up, leaving shadowy pasty splotches of dead skin where life once so freely grew from both their pores.
They were more than just another forgettable part of the living room arrangement. They were the cultivators of said arrangement, and lived with its flaws for as long as they possibly could, before the carpets were soon stained with the remains of accidental late-night binge drinking and love making sessions.
It was love for an hour, lust for a day, and is something they both still loosely consider a mistake. When it ended they were better off, and yet still apologizing for things said after dinner before both fought over the bathroom.
It would be years later that she offered one last shred of sympathy, a month after moving in next door. He would be shoveling snow with a sore back and expression; one dangling hair of a question still left unanswered in the back of his head. Why had she fucked him if he didn't have the drugs? Was it mercy or contempt that held such glue to the page? She would then buy thick blinds and tell her daughter not to cross the border of their two lawns while he contemplated buying binoculars before eventually settling on a nice and healthy porn addiction.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Letter to Ken

Dear Ken,
I have just finished the manuscript, and I must say, everything we discussed those late nights in my office appears to be present and/or accounted for. Your ability to remember astonishes me as I took a familiar and much-needed trek back around the hotel lobby, which I must say, hasn't felt the same since your departure. It was like a grounded shock to all of us, but I think right now, in this deeply warm and reflective moment, I finally understand the why and how.
While questions of my circumstantial disposition in the universe had previously kept me awake with the cuckoos and crickets outside, now I believe it to be true that resting easy with a head full of soluble points of view is just within my grasp, and I have you to thank for that. Your words have infected me as I'm sure they will others, hopefully in the same fashion, and with the same fluffy clouds parting up above all of our hairlines. Even now as I spin in this threadbare office, admiring the ceramic sign on the window (a gift from your wife that I have yet to meet, but pray to greet with open arms sooner than later) I find it difficult to fully express my gratitude for you, for showing me a light that I was certain burned out years ago.
However, now as the front desk is marked with the initials of new and fractured lovers, I sense that this forward wave (I'm sure we've both dreamt about individually in our separate numbered rooms) has finally taken hold again, and now there is not one singularly dazzling force holding us back. We are all returning to the roofs and mountaintops with round eyes shooting towards the roots, digging them up with our bare hands, and replanting the dry siphoned branches across the cracked sidewalks and bruised backyards of our original birth corners. We are kicking back the trampled remains of our former selves and revitalizing our mangled expressions with the blissful mischief of children tagging each other with clenched fists on their tattered basement couches.
I see your vision Ken, as if it were my own, and I will make it my life's mission to spread these words, to let them be passed down the chain like dusty heirlooms patiently awaiting the next tornado. I will puncture the yolk of your brilliance, and fry the friendly cells of each and every fleshy example that decides to re-examine their primary function upon entering into my well-kept palace. I will teach them the balance of their perpetual motions, bending the rules with the certainty and strain of a new mother birthing her first victim. I will let them hide in their rooms until they are ready to pierce the spider web on the wall, letting their fingers stick to the contours before grasping the hands of others and lifting their strong and sturdy arms into the frail night air, perceptive and aware of this next tremendous step.
I leave you with only one substantial request, and gasp at the inclination of doing so, since I know how busy the fall can be. If you could possibly find and look after my daughter, Josephine, who has by some fickle miracle grown up and into a rebellious wonder that I am proud and fearful of at the same time. She will be a source of dynamite and clutter if, and only if, you make the right first impression. I never did, but something whispers to me that you may have better luck.
I remain your fellow listener in Euclid,
Raymond Vaughn

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Behind blank stares.

I've stared at you from across the room, upstairs from where we've both played; screamed my contrivances into the guarded chakras of kids still too young to get it, kids too close to admit it, kids too old to care, but felt only the words I'd written for you. I've watched you, more drunk than I let on, more desirous than you'd put out. Thoughts of mauling you; a dry penetration that excoriates the hide from the bone, the gushing blood to do the rest. The cigarette in your mouth to affront God; the guitar in your lap for show, a single chord played again and again. I heard your quiet humming; felt the soft brush of your timid melody; knew there was ardor hidden just beneath all that shyness; knew all that shyness to be an invention, feigned, but somehow still sincere, an idiosyncrasy you'd fashioned yourself out of parts you were told to jettison long ago. I've stared at you, concocted plans, wondered if you'd resist; considered giving it a shot. Once, I almost mouthed the words 'follow me.' But you never looked my way to give me the chance.

I would've taken you to another room, a dark corner, tucked away behind the refrigerator, the hanging cupboard. Pushing you against the wall, trying my hardest to push you through it, leaving you embedded there forever, like a fossil, like a trophy of my libido's. Like a butterfly alighted on my finger, now pinned to cork board behind glass, never to fly or make love to another flower again. I would enter you without your consent. In someone else's kitchen, with people only a few feet away, I would turn you around, pressing your chest to the wall, palms flat against it like a criminal, one hand full of your hair, the other my own spit. Arming myself I would penetrate forcefully, and begin drilling you with violent, malicious intent. You'd come in seconds, as much to my surprise as your own. You'd come with white horses, with horns blaring, nails digging into the cheeks of my ass, teeth chipping against the unrelenting wall. You'd come with a devouring conflagration, killing both of us instantly.

I've stared at you from across the room, counted the stripes in your shirt, the rivets in your cords, the hairs on your head; traced you with my memory's brush when you weren't looking, or pretending not to. I've made love to you so many times in my head. Other times I've seized you, raped and murdered you, bashed your face against a sharp corner of cement, skull-fucked your broken mouth, tore myself on your jagged teeth, bled to death beside you.

But most times we just lie together, so close we become blurry cyclopses with messy bangs and sour breath. This is how I'd like it to be, how I want it to be. However, I can't be kept waiting for much longer.

Making.

Cut-outs in wooded areas and two braids.
Dad, meet my husband.
Mom, I'll meet yours.
Everything is made.

Not Green Tea

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Something to consider

i tried to write it all down. it was an adventure, even. where his friends kept crashing through windows, and he kept pulling them out, and taking the glass out of his own hands, and their faces and hair, all bloody. they protected and defended something, from the enemies. he woke up and saw the white wall yellow from the setting sun. there was still daylight left.
earlier his grandfather said to him, "you need to find the need and fill it."
he got up, groggy, and went out into it. it, i don't know what. but it's out there. for sure, it is.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Today's thoughts

Sidney Sees the Sun

I wake up from a restless sleep in the creaky single bed that has yet to offer me any afternoon delights or mid-morning pleasures, for that matter. This headache is permanent; my mouth indefinitely dry as I swish my tongue around only to find unexplainable sores on my gums and cheeks. Despite the lack of windows in my rented bedroom, I know it's cold and empty outside; the storm far from relenting. I'm dressed in the wrinkled and stained blue jeans from the night before. Traces of spilt liquor, resin, ash, sweat and earwax occupy various threadbare spots on the worn blue denim.
Nevertheless I am strangely comfortable sporting my own filth; an overflowing laundry basket and backpack full of liberally-sound assignments, taking up most of my floor space. The brown frayed carpet contains vomit and semen stains evenly dispersed with the dust bunnies. My uncut toenails crinkle when my feet touch the floor, rolling out of bed for a day that has not one discernible direction or plan up around the bend.
I first head towards the bathroom, noticing a lack of items that remain in Adam's bedroom. Only the rusted metal bed frame and empty bookshelf are intact; a skeletal structure of the dumbfounded college experience. The bathroom is mildew-ridden; the toilet seat covered in thick black pubic hair as I aim for the center and let my half-hearted morning erection descend back down to half mass. The sound of the water in the bowl is like drums on the wall as I make a swirling motion with my weighty stream.
Once finished, I wash my hands clean of the previous night and contemplate masturbation, before noticing the splotchy pink blood patches in the sink. Their origin is unbenknowest to me, but for some reason or another I think I should know why or how they got there, as if I am the sole human being responsible for such discoloration. My curiosity soon subsides, though, just as it has every morning since before I can remember.
I walk towards the living room and am confused by the sight of two skinny blondes 69-ing on my cigarette burned couch. I stand in the threshold watching them enjoy their complimentary tongue strokes, not in the least bit turned on by such vivid foreplay. Their moans and movements are programmed; faces lacking unique details, but instead glossed over with tanned and plastic delicacy. Their ribs stick out and are barely covered in skin; the shear lack of passion in their bobbing heads ultimately making me decide to dress in my winter attire and trudge down the frozen sidewalks of Fayette.
Freeman Avenue is a wasteland of used condoms, microwave burrito wrappers and empty 40 ounce bottles all being freely blown in the wind. Front porches are singed with the shadows of soft kisses, soon escalating to sloppy petting in the living room; the vague outline of love barely visible, like the imprints of skulls and bones in the Hiroshima walls. My footprints are red in the snow as if my back is leaking liquid, leaving behind a trail of fleshy breadcrumbs for some intriguing and unbalanced angel to follow blindly.
The sun is reflective off of the rocky piles of slush, reaching higher by the minute. I walk up and down the street past gyrating bodies in open storefront windows, or gulping foam from the bar taps. Faceless forms fuck in alleyways as diseased fluids are passed from person to person or left behind to casually freeze in the snow. Prayers and rants are out of sequence and in need of translation. My headphones are broken and won't even play in mono anymore.
By the time I finally arrive at Lane's porch, I've forgotten to breathe in my own nerves, but rather coldly knock in an affectionate rhythm before realizing that she either hasn't gotten home yet or is fucking a stranger. In any case, I'll sit and wait until it's time for our routine brunch and session of bullshit, as if this is where I've been waiting to arrive at my whole life.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

He had scratches all over his arms and legs when I watched him walk out of the forest, reluctant.
"What happened, Goose?"
"I don't know how to tell you about it. There was a lot of light, and oxygen. I felt free, like my strides were really weightless jumping. I certainly didn't have this body. It was amazing. I don't know what I would have done if You had been there. We might not have even looked at eachother. We might've just known already, and not had to say a thing."
"Are you okay?" He was shaking a bit, and bleeding all over.
"Yes. I'm complete, perfect and whole and I'm everything."
"Do you think you'll remember it?"
"No. I don't even remember how it felt anymore."
"Oh. Does that make you sad?"
"No."
We walked back to the house, and into our room and intentionally fell into the mess of dirty and clean clothes covering our bedroom floor. Goose laid on his back, rolled up a towel to rest his head on, and stared straight up at the ceiling, smiling.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

A Clay in the Life

I count the salivating seconds until it's time to properly wake everyone up. On a good day, my internal clock is outsourced by the soft sigh of a new recruit, rolling over next to me. They are usually young and confused; uncertain of what exactly our ever-expanding organization has to offer until a quick head rush and some cunnilingus helps to extinguish the first wave of expected doubts. I have to say that I've taken a liking to blonds in the summer months, simply because the dawn's early light reflects a panoramic view of this new era, even more so if the carpet matches the drapes.
I am usually dressed with a joint in my mouth by seven A.M. sharp, marching up one of the many hills to sound the low-pitched dinner bell dangling from one of the three lone trees. Those who stir from their earned slumber early are then usually given the best duties for the day. Intake and lectures are limited on most mornings depending on who decides to wander in and furthermore what kind of mood Ken is in. The cultivation of crops, border patrol, and routine upkeep are then less sought after, but at times, offer the best latter day rewards.
Certain chosen few (by Ken, never me) are also allowed free reign in and around the complex, and most of the time, are allowed such extravagant freedoms, because they are getting bred for special assignments outside of our white picket fences. These skilled deviants usually excel at some form of flattery or allusively drift toward their intended function within the collective spin. Most are grateful for whatever sampled point of view they are given, while those who resist either learn to succeed within such rebellion or are forced to forget in the fields with some of the other up and comers.
Meals occur by choice and are prepared by Mary and those she decides to save. These long-legged muses radiate from square to square, and boil my blood every time they pass me by. Dinner is a shred experience for all, taking place in the main house or hall on rainy days, and out atop the hills when the light is still visible on the horizon line. A reading then follows, and a sermon and then communion in less traditional forms. The large government shipments of Gen 25 arrive promptly in our walk-in freezer at noon, before being routinely marked and placed in the baskets by Joe or one of the other trusted originals.
As the sun sets and all of our illusive vibes bounce back and forth off of each other in conversation and flirtation, I try to keep my mind dead set on the task at hand. Ken will want time alone with Josephine or sometimes with David and Isaac, trying to make them understand the loss of consciousness at such a young age.
It is then usually mine or Arlo's job to occupy Mary with an overabundance of philosophised paperwork while Emmett and Linus begin to round up circles of musicians to help better test the product. Ken trusts them both more than he should, and I believe this will bite him on the ass later, but I'm one to quickly forget about predicted hostilities. The moon is shiny, and so are my heels as they scratch off the group with each burlap thump on the ground.
I'm not looking for necessarily, knowing that my once devoted Maude will never seek out such answers, but I can live with the shame of a temporary solution. These replacement parts are rusty at times, and more often than not require the proper amount of lubrication in order to truly function within our explosive bubble. But I enjoy how new they taste; swiping my time card fifteen minutes early, before smoothing out the crowd with technicolored accuracy. They all know me better now and we will dance like choreographed pagans before the slaughter and dry-mouthed headache the following morning.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

The Oddest of Ends (March 2009)

I had started to systematically sell or get rid of every major and minor collection from my childhood weeks after my best friend and roommate, Sidney, decided to take the long walk towards his own mortality. The little money I did make from framed animation cells, baseball cards and comic books was then spent on an overabundance of available drugs, which I would either consume or sell depending on my mood. This one-dimensional routine had then quickly taken its toll on my already lowered educational standards as I reluctantly checked my mid-term grades on the second to last day of spring break, only to soon discover that I was failing with the consistency of a disillusioned freshman alcoholically pledging service to the Greeks.
However, such clear and present concerns hadn't registered with my other expected fears, as I drove around my hometown, stoned and still unsure what Melanie meant when she said we were kind of done with each other. I suppose she still needed me around for the impending summer of boredom and to fill some kind of viable space next to her at graduation parties; my heart still thumping back and forth on most nights when she bothered to call and the two of us ended up within the same ten-mile radius.
I was moderately impatient that afternoon as I headed up the dirt path on the hill, about a half mile away from Edison High School, my Alma mater. My car was parked reliably in the first available spot on the street that bordered the drug-free-zone signs. The abandoned Protestant church had caught fire in 1984, all paths leading to the remaining four walls and steeple, now naturally grown over. Every bottomed-out youth of Brier, Connecticut knew about it sanctity and therefore only took the hike when necessary evils trumped their own fears of specters and spirits. Sander had beaten me there, having most likely walked straight over after school. We had a predominately business relationship; him being Sidney's brother Ethan's on-again off-again best friend. They both had girlfriends at that point, who surprisingly enough were also best friends, but still didn't change the circumstance too much. Sander Rowe needed pot and I needed money for my next paper-thin purchase of paraphernalia. It was just that plain and simple.
We understood each other, and had, on occasion, been social, when on the same psychedelics, but all of these encounters still didn't change the fact that certain exchanges in secluded locations were meant to be brief; both parties abiding by the same codes of contraband etiquette.
"How long have you been here?" I asked first, focusing on the charred and dirt-covered stained-glass windows.
"Not too long. Megan was supposed to come with me, but like all good girlfriends, she bailed."
"But I'm sure she'll still get high with you, right?" I joked.
"It's just the way it is. Women are fickle angels."
"So true." I nodded, grabbing the bag out of my pocket and re-examining its contents one last time, before tossing it to Sander. "That good for you?"
"Yeah, this works." He replied, pleased as he checked the bag's quality and consistency, pulling out his wallet. "You're gone again tomorrow, right?"
"Uh huh... Back to the bullshit I'm afraid."
"So is there anything to really look forward to after this gets old?"
I took a moment to think about such a question, before the soft interruption of my cellphone vibrating against my knee made me reconsider all previous assumptions. I thought I was in a bad reception area. I knew who it was, my delayed response directly influenced by Melanie's anxious tones in my pocket.
"It depends on what kind of mood they're all in." I finally said, before answering over the static and leading the next retreat back towards the modern pull of my remaining hours as a free agent.

brothers and sisters, i'm not going to lie.

when i ride my bike,
i like to get high.
i put on warm layers
and pack a nice bowl,
with smoke in my lungs
i'm ready to roll.

too high to work.
hope you all have good and productive days.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Officially met on 2-16-09

Thoughts of a new beginning flood my mind even while trying to do back breaking chores like cleaning the carpet. Is this really happening I keep asking myself, saying her name over and over again. I thought I was doomed until she came along. Whispering poems with our eyes was our only means of communication for so long. She fills the room with the kind of beauty that artists try to capture their entire lives yet she doesn't even know how beautiful she is. Soft melodies dance around me whenever we talk, my body begs for it to never stop. Come play with me I tell her. She woke me from the coma I was living. She brought me to a place that I can never return from. She saved me. This is happening. She does love me. I do love her. I'm not suppose to be this lucky. I'm not suppose to be this happy.

Phipps Conservatory 2/9/09





Short Distances

She can still taste his cells as she tries desperately to wash her mouth out with thick handfuls of liquid soap that her mother continually buys in bulk, just in case some kind of overwhelming storm approaches. It's been over three months since the last time either one has said much of anything to each other; casual breaks in communication with other interested parties usually occurring in the form of a dirty look from across some scattered living space. She's been trying, though. Trying to save face, trying to rewind and watch the embarrassing playback from a different outsider perspective, just to see if she can still recognize the way her face looked, as if it was a mugshot, or in preparation of a lie detector test and subsequent police line-up.
He's moved on, and she knows that. Her mother says people jump from rock to stone to gravel to dirt until it's all just another forgotten fossil in the ground, but she doesn't want to necessarily believe all the truths. Not at this point in her disjointed life anyway. Her mother may be like her friend's mothers and his friend's mothers, but she isn't prone to any of their aged and phony sensibilities, not so long as she can still feel something.
As she thinks about it more, dwelling on some absent-minded sense of nostalgia, she also begins to wonder if he still thinks about her, and furthermore if she needs to do something else. One final and truly lowered attempt at stirring his mind from one gutter to another. She cancels and re-administers plans with people she knows aren't necessarily worth her time, but worth his time, and therefore it's all the same kind of minutes to the both of them.
Her wishes finally come true in the blue bathroom of a mutual friend's house; the wallpaper of soft and bouncy angels atop white clouds reminding her of the ceiling in the concert hall where she first watched The Nutcracker. There were many illusive happenings on stage, and yet she couldn't help but continue to look up at the permanent view, which was only given life and movement in her own fractured brain.
The landscape of the bathroom walls didn't have as much of an effect; her head and neck bent down towards the ground again as she listened intently for any sign that this last gasp was justified.
Instead, as time sometimes moves backward, he returned to the living room, grinning childishly, while she washed her mouth out again, and started to think about why such impulses would continue to creep up on her, until it was finally time to grow up. She would marry a once-bitten, twice shy professor the following year, while his unexpected inheritance would help fund the next structured porn empire. It would be on New Year's Eve when they finally ran into each other again, with close to nothing left to say.

Sunday, February 15, 2009



before tour.

here are the bands i am ready to start:
Sanskrit.
John Bender.
Heaven's Sake.
Felattio Nassis.
Hotlantis.
band with Joel (and Cory Savit?)
Permission to Die Sarge.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Thursday, February 12, 2009



The East Heights Blackout of 1999: Phoebe

I was having problems readjusting to more than just the weather; my reputation hitting an all-time low the previous October when I got drunk at the Tipton's and ended up on the bad end of a blowjob. Suddenly everyone at Easton knew me as the innocent freshmen slut even though I went to Saint Marie's, and the turquoise rosary beads I got for my first Holy Communion, still dangled from my bedpost. I never really prayed, though, but rather just kept such reminders around my house for the times when I felt reasonably lost, which was almost all the time at fifteen.
I was planning on starting over in the impending new year; dying my hair and maybe falling for an unattainable mystery somewhere. However, that night I was moderately intrigued by the concept of possibilities. The star quarterback, Cliff Bala, had somehow magically picked up on some faint glimmer of my reputation; most likely running the possibilities through his head, before deciding to waste just one of his Friday nights on me.
It was solely the two of us, with no available plans; all of our parents trailing off to the multiple high points of East Heights. The snow and impending storm was only a minor divergence, and not worth paying too much attention to, just like their basketcase children scratching at the toxic paint on their bedroom walls.
Cliff showed up at my house fifteen minutes after calling, around eight or so, wearing a brown turtleneck and the smuggest of grins, which truly highlighted all of his exceptionally white teeth. They were reflective, and made me feel like I was being watched, even in my own home, even when there were so many other situation comedies on local stations. We both sat in front of the television for awhile, barely speaking like a married couple disappointed over the cancellation of dinner plans. Cliff then paced back and forth around the kitchen with our cordless phone, trying to find anything anywhere, any kind of polished hint of something worthwhile.
His shear irritation from such a lack of news then made me a bit uncomfortable as I attempted to think about why I was wasting my time with such a naive nincompoop. He was attractively dull, and I had no idea how to handle such mixed feelings of angst and boredom.
We let our lack of chemistry resonate for another hour or so, talking in single word sentences and trying to keep our hands passively at our laps. When the whole block shorted out around ten, it suddenly became impossible to act civil and even respectable. I'm still not sure what compelled me to make the first move. Maybe it was just so I had a story to tell. Part of me wanted to simply go along with whatever it was they were all saying. Cliff would later talk it up like it was some kind of gigantic circumstance, but really I think it was just easier for the both of us to pretend with the lights off.
I didn't feel violated despite the pain that they all talk about, nor did I feel like a woman for the first time. I wasn't emptier than usual or sad that all of a sudden I was the girl that had gotten bored, and routinely fucked the quarterback with a half-open smile. I didn't feel sorry about anything or sympathetic for what seemed like a mutual lack of experience between the two of us; our arms struggling for superiority on the living room couch.
It was just something to do and get over with, like a dentist's appointment; both our mouths numb from the diffusion of novacaine. I wouldn't really talk to Cliff again after he nervously drove home around midnight, even though we were socially sifting through the same dirt river until that May. I then didn't sleep with anybody again until Kevin Mansfield in the summer before our senior year at Easton; the act of transferring from Catholic to public school much like a shift from diet coke to regular. The taste just stung less, and I could usually swallow regardless of how flat and warm the can was.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Self Portrait


Cigarette burn hole eyes courtesy of Emily Volkar.






Pat doesn't understand why I find his room incredible.

The East Heights Blackout of 1999: Evie

I'm still not exactly sure how everything came together for us. I mean, I knew both of them since we started at Saint Stephen's just like I knew Katie before she moved away, even though Zeke and Greg both really never knew Katie, and I guess I never really knew them until seventh grade. Maybe Katie moving was the reason I stopped trying to impress people. Add on top of that the fact that Zeke and Greg never had high expectations of anyone, including themselves, and I suppose it just makes sense that we officially stated hanging out as a trio that Friday.
I remember it was the same day that Aimee Shields got busted for stealing gulps of communal wine and hiding them in her black and gold thermos. We barely knew her then, and yet all three of our minds were running wild with the idea of sinful exploits after school, as we rode the same creaky bus home. Zeke and Greg would usually hang out at one or the other's house on most Friday afternoons, playing video games and raiding the junk food cabinets. I was invited that cold day for reasons I'm still not in the least bit sure of. I had sat down at their small round lunch table roughly two weeks earlier after getting my thirty-third period and realizing that all the girls I was surrounded by were ugly and vicious people. We then all quickly grew accustomed to each other, and what all three of us could bring to the table.
I must admit, though, despite the warm and confusing feelings of friendship with the opposite sex, walking into Zeke's cluttered house that afternoon and waiting for some creative pull towards inspiration was a task in and of itself. There wasn't much for three bored seventh grade catholics to do on a snowy Friday other than occasionally look out the window and see if much of anything was systematically piling up.
Zeke and Greg were both reasonably horrible at entertaining a girl, even one with little to no faith left, like me. They set themselves up in front of the television set, almost immediately and let their thumbs take out the majority of their pent-up aggression; an offshoot of Jesus and etiquette. I watched the different colors change in shade for awhile before Zeke's dad got home with dinner in bucket form. Already I was thinking about some kind of an exit strategy, not to be rude, but rather just to watch the flakes delicately fall by themselves in the comfort of my own bedroom.
Yet, after dinner, at the last minute, I decided to call my mom and tell her I would be staying for a little while longer. Mr. Morgan was then gone by eight, dressed in a light gray suit, and anxious to schmooze over cocktails with some of the other third-rate journalists from The East Heights Times. Abruptly all six of our hands became idle at the second his car was heard backing out of the garage. Without hesitation, Greg decided to vibrate towards the liquor cabinet; Zeke's restrictions soon dissolving as all our stomachs became warm and full with the choice syrup of our mothers and fathers.
The mixture of rum and root beer threw all of us into an uninhibited spin where suddenly there were no limitations. We said and talked about all the awkward and transparent forward motions, wetting our separate whistles when necessary. We laughed like it was Paris, France and the war was a mere afterthought. I felt like a missing memento, unexpectedly discovered in the dirt amongst shells and completely uncertain what was coming next in line.
At around ten-thirty, all three of us threw-up; Greg in the basement garbage can, Zeke in the upstairs bathroom and me outside on the steps by the sliding door. The power then shit the bed at eleven; our nauseated bodies bundled up on the dark blue sectional, drinking lukewarm cocoa with miniature marshmallows and hoping that our lives could willfully survive the next few years of similar moronic activities.
Soon we all passed out on our separate pieces and were awoken with McDonald's breakfast burritos the next morning. All I remember thinking was if Mr. Morgan ever cooked, before getting picked up and resetting all of my alarm clocks back home. That night had been the light that eventually led us three unwise children towards punk rock, once our stomachs settled on the notion of loud and unruly rumbles.

- - -

Monday, February 9, 2009

The East Heights Blackout of 1999: Debra

I think I was more disappointed than anything else, first because I was a week away from eighteen and second because everyone's parents had something to do despite the weather, and I was stuck at home with no car or predetermined destination. Add on top of that both my parents claiming that they were going to throw me out into the cold sooner than later and the rumors circulating around about me in the Easton hallways, and it was shaping up to be a pretty shitty Friday night.
The weather only made things worse as I waited for my vision to get blurry after pouring myself a thick glass of rum and Dr. Pepper (which was on sale that week) around eight o'clock once my parents fled the house for foggy suburban lights. I remember looking out the glass sliding door, watching everything blow around and wondering, if I passed out in the snow, how long would it take for somebody to find me. Would I be indefinitely frozen until the spring sun thawed my stiff body from the ground? Or would they notice my absence right away?
Gina's call interrupted all of my thoughts on winter mortality; her plans disappointing, but nevertheless worth a moment of my night. I was soon putting my face back on, thick shades of blue eyeshadow and lipstick making me appear moderately glamorous in the December night. Gina was late, of course, pulling into my driveway around ten, before both of us were slowly barreling along the reflectively-white and slushy caked roads towards Max's house on the outskirts of civilization. It was halfway through this expanded trip that we saw the first few house lights flicker, before going out completely.
By the time we arrived at Max's, everything was black; our stoned host opening the door with a Jack-Frost-scented candle in hand. Gina and I both laughed at such a sight before following Max back to his room and surprisingly finding Jonas sitting Indian-style on the floor, reading comic books with a green plastic camping lantern. His beard had grown thicker since getting back from another semester at State; the expression on his face upon first seeing us, a cross-between joy and irritation.
I hesitantly sat down next to Jonas on the floor; our mutually exclusive rapport re-igniting like the generators would the following morning. We were friends and he loved me once, I think, back when the confusion of Easton High was still on his plate. We were suddenly just pretending like nothing had changed even though things like the faulty electricity was only the beginning of lingering tides.
Conversation spread with more smoke floating in the space between our bodies and the ceiling. I asked Jonas more questions than I thought possible; the prospect of college being one that was quickly extinguished right around the same time I was done filling out the bubbles on future career surveys. I hadn't written any essays or applied anywhere, already knowing in full what the paved path of all future next steps looked like.
I suppose the drugs helped me to further settle into such an idea even on that chilled night. I think it was easier to deal with the fact that eventually all of us would move on, even with the lights burned out. This way not one of us really had to look at anybody else, but instead just the outlines of their expressions. The contours of all our faces by candlelight appeared hauntingly optimistic, and I couldn't help but feel happy that I wasn't again stuck in my parents' house.
The next morning would be full of dim stories on the previous night, and all I could think about was the final cigarette smoked on Max's porch, before I passed out drunk on the couch and wondered why Jonas hadn't tried to look at me the same way that night. I would never find out, and he would remain my lost and fair weathered memory until the end re-justified the means.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

You're over it--the novelty. Not done though, cause that ain't all I am. Did ya feel, it's getting warmer?
Did you tell yourself you're not worth the handful of trinkets you found
diving in creeks at the bottom?
Slept with the window open a crack. The wind at night cleared me out/up.
Like crying at your high school dance, hearing the droning romantic sounds behind 3 or 4 walls. Fake stars shinin' blue. The sparkle catches you, again and every single fucking time. So much that when we get off the bus, you
grab my arm and look at me the way you're not supposed to.
You tell me if you could you'd kiss a line up my face, from my chin, to my lips, to my nose, to my forehead.
Sounds weird, maybe, but the conviction on your own face is tangible in the space between yours and mine. Like those hangin stars, suspended, you know, no one's movin. We're both too serious about this to fuck it up with reality.
We don't move, just look at eachother. I almost grab your face and kiss you.
You know I'm too afraid, though.
The driver says, "either you're on the bus or you're off it."
You say "bye" and i just hold up a hand.
You get on the bus.
Coulda stood there forever, not moving with you.

Saturday, February 7, 2009

Friday, February 6, 2009

After opening:
I realize how much there is to be found.

After reading:
I realize how much there is to be said.

After a papercut:
I realize how much there is to be felt.

The East Heights Blackout of 1999: Susan

I had originally intended on spending the night alone since Ramona had ditched me for Peter and Lee, and it was too cold to go to see Lee fight Chase or really anywhere for that matter. Although, I was used to it, I still didn't really feel like walking home, especially since I wasn't sure who my friends were. I was just kind of somewhere in-between with everybody, and I was pretty sure that that in-between was close to turning into nothing at all. So I just rode the bus home and listened to pop radio in my bedroom for awhile.
Then it wasn't until dinner (re-heated pizza from the night before) that Joan Foster called me out of the complete blue. I didn't even know she had my number let alone any reason to call me considering that the two of us still barely knew each other, even though we ate lunch at the same table and sometimes would talk about other people in science. Her parents were out at a friend's house or something that night, and she needed somebody to sleep over so she wouldn't freak out by herself. I was a bit reluctant at first, considering that the two of us were only really cool with each other because of Amber Jenson. I guess both of us were fighting to be her acceptable best friend; me especially since Ramona had started changing into a loser with Lee and Peter.
I would later win in such a race and Joan would eventually start latching onto Paige Hughes, but that night, I guess we were both neutrally numb to the idea of hanging out with each other, especially since there wasn't anything else going on and we hadn't heard about anything else from anybody else. I packed a bag with clothes, my toothbrush and some of mom's cigarettes, before getting dad to drive me the mile and a half to Joan's house; his groans sounding about standard as I impatiently sat in the passenger's seat and watched him annoyingly chip ice off of the windshield.
It was then a bit awkward when I first arrived. Joan was dressed in a long and wavy green evening gown that looked right out of the 1940's. I didn't ask her about such a get-up, feeling like I had to respect her and the house that I had never been in before. It was no castle or even much more than a respectable suburban hole that had been worn down to size by Joan's mother and her live-in boyfriend Kenny Dunlap. They both knew my parents through some jagged semesters spent at State, but no one really talked about the other ones anymore.
Nevertheless, despite the scattered newspapers and dirty dishes in the sink, I kept my mouth shut and followed Joan around the various high points of her humble abode. Her bedroom was cluttered with failed attempts of fashion and popularity; my head instantly starting to pick away at the discarded little pieces so I could make fun of her with Amber later when the opportunity presented itself.
We watched TV for awhile and stole lite beers from the basement fridge. It lasted like runny vomit, but I drank three or so before peeing for what felt like an hour in the tacky meringue bathroom. I think it was around ten or so, when we decided to go outside and smoke the stolen cigarettes from my bag. Roughly a minute after our first puff, the wind really picked up and soon all the lights on the block fluttered before going out.
The two of us stood petrified in the snow for longer than necessary; Joan and I coolly continuing to exhale. We eventually went back inside, lit some candles and decided to prank call Mr. Fleegle, our science teacher before downshifting to Charlie Nolan, one of our less popular classmates. The first few to our perv of a teacher were hilarious, and I couldn't remember a time when I had laughed so hard. I didn't feel too great about Charlie, though. He just sounded disappointed with every childish giggle that resonated over the receiver.
I fell asleep on Joan's bedroom floor around one A.M. and then woke up to the sounds of her mom and Kenny drunkenly having sex at 3:00. It would be the first and only time we were sleepover friends or any brand of friend for that matter. I would be relieved to return to the boring darkness of my own side of town the next morning and start over again from scratch in school on Monday.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Fuck you.

You have no idea how much I need you right now.

A Fleeting Scene

- Yeah dude, you can come. I just want you to know that we need to set certain ground rules first.
- What the fuck are you talking about man?
- Well if you come along, I just want you to know that our plans aren't up for negotiations since I'm driving and everything.
- I'm still not sure what the hell you're talking about?
- Well, I just don't wanna get stuck in certain situations and clusters like we have in the past.
- I'm still at a loss.
- I don't wanna hang out with certain people.
- Like who?
- Well, ya know, people who think they know me socially, spiritually, artistically, when really it's all just mass assumptions that are more or less an offshoot of everybody being fucked up all the time.
- And you think if I come with you that the two of us are going to end up in situations with people like that?
- Every time the two of us hang out, we end up in situations with people like that.
- Really?
- Well the exception of maybe right now.
- You really think too far ahead sometimes.
- It's really the only kind of path I can walk anymore.

they got married and these were the differences and the similarities

1.) Good, Bad
2.) lime, lemon
3.) yellow, yellow
4.) atreyu, atreyu
5.) shirts, shirts
6.) grass, grass
7.) headphones, grass
8.) antennas, lightswitch
9.) dust, sun
10,) plants, cushions
11.) blue sky, blue sky
12.) stars, stars
13.) camping, camping
14.) cuddling, cuddling
15.) nights, nights
16.) diddy, biddy

February 8, 2004

Possible band names:

-Rainy O' Hara
-You got it, dude
-Corky Thatcher
-I broke the endtable my pop made
-people make BAD decisions

kid lesson


Girls shouldn't stand to pee

..**..

>>**..

Wednesday, February 4, 2009







Original

expecting to be excited soon

From above a parking lot, where the fire escape is about to bust from the ice (rust not likin it at all), you see nothing's changed much. Like when you wake up in the mornings and rest your hands on your stomach and feel yourself breathing and "what's the fucking point?" early thoughts.
Like when you know he's not done and is still trying and you ignore it eventhough you're ready to fuck just about anyone. And empty.
You try to open the door and almost fall down the stairs. If your neck broke before you felt anything, it'd be fine. And then you'd see yourself in a living room, just dancing in the dark, without a we---but by yourself. Except people would be trying to look in the windows, and every now and then they would think they saw something moving. A static spark between your socks feet and the yellow rug. But you wouldn't turn on the lights and you wouldn't open the window--you'd just keep dancing.

Required Presentations For the Month

Today, in school we had a presentation on race and ethnicity and an African American doctor came in with a slide show to try and teach everyone about the little things that their underdeveloped minds still can't fully grasp. Everything was fine and accurate until she started showing collaged clip art of different races and suddenly I was shocked and offended by the pictures chosen by this so-called professional to help portray the average white person.
The majority of the Caucasian pictures were completely normal people smiling and enjoying their lives, but the two that instantly got under my skin was first a throwback photograph of the Cleaver Family from "Leave it to Beaver" and then finally a stupefied scientist from what looked like a 1950's education reel, smiling with a cartoonish light bulb over his head.
Suddenly I felt uncomfortable in my own skin as I looked across the classroom and found myself at a loss for words. How could a licensed professional with a psychological medical degree pick such stereotypical pictures of the white race? It's almost as if she was saying that white people are still living in some hypothetical suburban family-friendly fantasy world where we're oblivious to what's really happening, frightened by communism and furthermore the inclination of a nuclear holocaust at any second.
I felt like screaming and criticizing her poor choices and furthermore calling her a racist for such a complete lack of effort to pick a legitimate photograph to represent the exact same idea. She could have posted a picture of Einstein or Kennedy, but instead it was two out-of-date and truly unsettling images of smiling and completely pleased phonies. I then suddenly lost track of all double standards and wondered how she would feel if I made a presentation and put up 1930's actors wearing black face. Oh, how this world still has trouble learning to breath on its own once under the deep and rumbling waters of a flood.

Off the Weather Charts (February 2009)

The call came in earlier than I expected. Edmund, the head of my department, sounded groggier than usual, most likely disappointed that he wouldn't be getting a daily blowjob from some aspiring narcissist, on account of the weather. It then took a second or so for the news to register in the back of my brain; before I stiffly crawled out of bed and peaked out our bedroom window. It was a white tundra of flakes running marathons on all our windshields and driveways.
I was soon looking back over at Naomi, who was curled into a symmetrical ball on her side of the bed; the subtle movements of her hands and fee making me contemplate what would be the logical starting point for such an abrupt gift of a day. I tip-toed out of our bedroom and into the baby's, wondering how much time I had. Usually my son would be our internal alarm clock; crying right before Naomi and I had to run all the hard-to-swallow lessons back through our heads.
That day was Divine, though. He snored like his mother, a similar dreamy smirk lining his face. I was in the clear; checking to make sure Naomi was also cancelled on the Internet, before unplugging our phone line and finally crawling back into bed next to her.
"Is it true or was I just dreaming too hard?" She asked me, eyes pensively closed.
"It's true." I smirked.
"And the baby?"
"Sound asleep."
"I think you may be jinxing us right now."
"It wouldn't be any different from all those other times." I joked quietly.
"I've been trying to forget those times" She said lightly, before rolling over and facing me; her green eyes barely visible even inches from my face.
"So do we go back to sleep?" I questioned lightly conscious.
"Well, if we're already both awake..."
She then didn't bother to finish, but instead lazily straddled me and started the process. I instantly became passionate as possibilities for the day began to infinitely run around my head, not bothering to slow down and ask for directions while I kept repeating myself. I was truly in love with Naomi again, despite our rocky obligations to the past. She had grown out of the nine months of post-pregnancy depression; inexplicably aroused despite the sleepiness in both our bodies.
I didn't picture anyone else in my dream-like state as the mattress began to creek on the few bad springs. Our moans were internally silenced; mouths open with no sounds coming out for fear that it would all end as fast as it began. We were at the bar, lonesome, conversing on the same pages and sooner than later waking up without enough strength to call it another one-night stand. Naomi was vibrant again; every half-open blink turning into a kaleidoscope of former and latter images, all of which were undefinable in that particularly cold moment of the morning. We were the exhausted flakes falling for a similarly ironic mirror image of self and it was leisurely pleasing until the door bell rang.
Instantly the baby started crying, as we were quick to snap out of and away from our daze; each one of us scrambling for composure as an alternative blur of questions came forth. Who could possibly be at our front door on such a snowy morning? Our neighbors weren't the types to ask for favors.
I was still fumbling with the tie on my robe, when all variations of the day shattered into a sentimental egg-white of emotional re-attachment. My younger sister, Maude, stood reasonably threadbare on our front porch, soaked to a tee and amazingly bright despite her mysterious disappearance four years earlier.
"Hey Jude. Looks like I finally found you." Lighter than the expression on her face.
"Jesus Christ..." I stuttered before pulling her inside away from it all.
Cancellations on winter mornings wouldn't be the same again.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Routine Camping Experience (June 2009)

The detached trailer sat rusted in our freshly-paved driveway; its purpose somehow obsolete now that neither one of us required so much room for luggage and toiletries. Dad still needed to dig the black and red for-sale-by-owner sign out from under cluttered piles in the garage and tack it to the smudgy back window.
I remember glaring out past the dead insects into the breezy summer air; exhaustingly excited as he would slowly build a fire from the ground up. We were all pleased with the concept of a weekend escape then, even if it ended up giving us migraines most of the time. Those shouts were standard, though, and didn't really sting as bad as the ones that followed, that all three of us remainders couldn't necessarily handle.
My brother, Sidney, was usually the mediator, and also the one who would ride up front with dad, navigating with the crinkled road maps as we headed out into the same rented corner of the wilderness. Mom and I would usually play cards at the complimentary plastic table in the trailer, listening to The Beach Boys and dreaming of the different wonders that the summer had to offer. When we finally arrived it would be an absurd amount of symmetry; all four ends doing their part in order for us to properly sleep under the stars and start fresh the next morning.
All I could do that new dawn as dad hazily drove in his ragged Edison Championship Football shirt and faded blue jeans was pretend to sleep; the radio interrupting certain waves of consciousness as I tired to think of Candace and not Sidney. She had infected me in an improper fashion; the only forward motion I was looking forward to that whole summer being the misplaced joy of hiding away with her hazy complexion and hoping that nobody found us.
Yet the inevitability of tradition, despite the complete breakdown of our unit in the past six months, had taken hold on the one person who was getting too damn good at denial. My father was still convinced that his wife was coming back and that his son hadn't killed himself on New Year's Eve. I was too stoned most of the time to tell the difference; the act of masking the smell ending in May with the hushed echo of my mother's fleeing steps.
It was like they were both still around, lingering for far too long at the next closest rest stop and yet (as if it truly is all the same) still ghostly shadows communicating with younger versions of the Decker family, seen in pre-planned church congregation photographs.
We were all happy to smile once and then sooner than later allowing the priest the proper amount of time to craft a religiously-acceptable amount of words to explain separation and suicide. It made my stomach churn to think about hell and how I would be reunited with all the friendly sinners soon enough. Candace would be seductively candid; Sidney enlightened by the tree of knowledge, and I would know where to start talking about all the things left unsaid.
"Are you going to wake up?" My father coughed as the lukewarm air bounced off of my pores.
"I've been kind of awake this whole time." I replied, reclining my seat forward.
"Well how come you haven't said anything?"
"I stopped talking months ago, haven't you noticed?" I yawned.
"Ya know, we can still do all the same things without the trailer. Not that much is different out here." My father said, instantly changing the subject as he often did.
"Still the same great outdoors... I know. I'm just not sure if I'm in any condition to brave the wilderness."
"What the hell's wrong with you?"
I didn't say anything, but instead let my body and eyelids sink back within the seat. Upon my return to Brier, I would have a job, a girlfriend, and a reason to avoid hiding in my room, acting like I didn't hear my father's instructions as he unscrewed the bolts before realizing that very few household appliances can stand on their own accord, especially the ones that were wedding presents.

Sunday, February 1, 2009

You broke me. So you did it. So much so that it made me remember lightness and hope. I'll get it back cause the snow's meltin today. And I can smell the new ground breathing again on my own skin

Through the blinds

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