Showing posts from April, 2009

Society Islands

When ink smudges look like llamas, or if you really could fly by taping feathers to yourself and moving your arms so fast it hurts, and the time your lunch monitor saw you wiping your boogers on your pants and looked disgusted. And what if time travel was possible and the world's most powerful nation saved itself from international recession by becoming peaceful and what would your mother say if she heard that tone you took with your sister, but who would play doctor for you if there weren't any band-aids in the house, because you never bought any, because you were alone and destined to be so forever and hoped if you cut your finger bad enough with that damn knife you always use for the wrong thing, then maybe, just maybe, possibly, being lonely wouldn't matter any more.

Sewer Rats

Exactly the kind of vacant feeling associated with car dealerships.
Something you can't put your finger on, something not quite right;
like a grey sky with no hope of rain or sun.
And the mystery of railroads...
and the way you feel lifeless during winter,
surrounded by decaying deciduous trees.
You just want to go home, to summer,
to popsicles and sun tan lotion and waves,
and girls in bikinis and cars with no tops.
But mostly just the green, the green, the green.
Baseball diamonds forests dog trails graveyards backyards back doors screen doors locked doors open.
But for now, it's winter, and you can't quite put to words why you're so quiet,
and you can't quite explain why you cry when someone changes the radio station,
but it exists.
Just like you do, probably.
And just like I do,

we got high and asked


I eat whores for breakfast.

You deliver words that melt like water from a glacier, becoming insignificant upon entrance into the ocean of other softly spoken words hollowly aimed my way. Deep sea divers couldn't find depth in your diction. Not to mention the expanse, the expanse that is your back. It couldn't be achieved by Mt Everest explorers. This was a lesson, one in geography, and not at all in liquor or love, company or incandescence. This was nothing more than what it was, backs and depths and heights and never-ending plains. Theoretical; much like the horizon. Ideally.

Moonwards bound.

Souls without bodies:
Without bodies, because what are they good for? Consumption. Something to satiate the hunger to feel.
Like the feeling of eating too much, or pulling a muscle, or when your ears ring.
Or when you come inside from the cold, and wash your hands under hot water.
The ability to remember, the ability to forget.
The volcanic explosion in your chest when you see the wrong thing. Seeing.

Bodies without souls:
Something to fill the void. Something to stop the bones rattling between disconnected veins, sinews without purpose, holding together useless organs to useless skin. Nothing of worth.
Cosmic matter becomes boring. Understanding without feeling.
Disinterest: apathy, geography, psychology, physiology.
Ability without intrigue.

Self-quote, unlike self-improvement.

"Accordions were probably invented after realizing how much like accordions our bodies are when we fuck."

Home by ten

After you left without turning back
to see my hand over my heart
Surrendering from this war
I sent you a letter
signed "inconsequentially yours,"

the only hope i held was in that you would
the letter, with the 'in' crossed out.
instead you just crossed me off
your list of current events.