It is my fear that keeps me down.
In a letter to Kris, I wrote "The fear, the fear, the fear
-doesn't everyone have it?" but I'm not sure he does. 

At night, mostly, I feel antsy. That is, when I am not
six-beers-in-drunk with my two unlikely best friends.
Their largest character flaw, collectively, is simply that
they want to spend time with me.

And the anxious way that I grind my teeth- I push
my tongue hard to the top row. The ridges of my molars
painfully bite into the muscle. It's the only thing that stops
my teeth from being grated into a fine powder. Bone dust.
But, it only serves to make me more nervous. I have to
keep attentive as to not slip back to the sliding of enamel
on enamel and that, in itself, is stressful.

I still want to make art; a drive I thought I wouldn't have
now, but it runs as hot and deep as ever. Or, rather, I should
say, as never. I've never felt the urge to create as hard as now
where the means to create has been stunted and I can't produce
the image of what I want to create, in my mind or otherwise.

But don't I always want what I can't have.

I suppose there is the binding of useless books. Busy work
to keep my hands from the dread of stillness.
And, writing but I write and write knowing no one will see it.
I know I won't post it, I don't even want to post this.
I don't want others to know that I've got the fear.

I can't cook in this foreign kitchen. It's too hot to turn on the oven
and there's always someone there when I want to be alone.
I want to feel comforted by the act of making and sharing food
but I can do neither. These are not my pots and pans, not my
cutlery or over abundance of kitchen appliances.

Too many questions when I just want silence.
Too many people when I just want to be alone.
Too much time awake when I just want to be knocked the fuck out.

When you poison yourself for days and days,
why does your body not figure out what you're
going for, and help you along?

I remind myself, once a month of the people I'll never see again.
It opens like fresh hurt and I wonder why I do it. Grief comes in
waves- I've read and been told.
I have no feelings on that statement, yet I do.
And I sometimes think if you don't allow yourself to freshen that
grief, powder it's nose, then those people will disappear too.

I guess that is my answer.

A glimpse of rows of the washed out green blues
of old family photo skies with curled up corners
drying on a basement floor.

I watch briefly, from my vantage point, a group of
men play soccer in the parking lot behind a factory.
Two cans of paint as a goal.
The stocky goalie stands, back bent with his hands
on his upper thighs ready to guard that space between
those two paint cans.

Again, from my vantage point I see reeds in the bed of
a stream, all pointed in one direction, matted down on
the river bottom, but waving like hands with the flowing water.

Sometimes I find myself so selfish that I truly can't bear it.
Does thinking that you are a human yet fix anything?
I think not.

"Safely crossover" he says over the loud speaker,
like instead of disembarking by stair we may instead,
in a desperate haze to make our train,
run across the tracks themselves.

I look at this situation through some strange muted grey-blue sheer curtain.
It's like biting into a piece of fruit only to eat the sticker.

The shit I'm afraid of has made me hateful.

I keep dreaming into the day time.
Parts of my nightmares jut out into my realities.
They leave my senses muddled.
I wake up with smells in my nose that can't
possibly be there, images burned on my eye lids.

I keep seeing her hands folded on top of one another,
waxy. There are things we'd all rather not remember.

I want to go home. But where is home now? Where
has it been? Where have I been building my nest, twig
by twig. Not here. Maybe there. And furthermore
where will it be when they're all gone?

I heave so much accidental burden on the shoulders
of friends and for that, I am sorry.

Mike clutches a chunk of homemade bread in front of
a dirty American flag- Max on his left, in the kitchen,
washes dishes under a cabinet that says "CLEAN UP"

A rectangle of light falls perfect over your face.
I watch you sleep for -one, two, three seconds-
through the crack in the open door before I shut
it with a click. I want to take a photo, but I don't.

Back from then, you lean in the shade that buildings
provide and smoke a cigarette. I don't remember summers
being as hot as they are now. It's day time. We drink.

Somewhere in between here and there- we sit on folding
lawn chairs in the back of a van. It's winter and I root through
my pockets for chapstick. It's dark back there, no windows,
and my elbow bumps something as the chair slides when
we turn a corner- drum sticks clatter to the floor.

But further back now, cut feet from broken shells leave
bloody marks on uneven wooden floor boards. You dress
the wounds with shaky hands, I look away when it stings.

But further yet, a plain off-white coarse jump rope with
smooth wooden handles. It's cheap, I can feel it. I know,
from comparison, the other kids. The handles make dull
hollow sounds as I drag them across the pavement.

And even further- a yellow raincoat, borrowed in a courtyard.
A bed that takes up the whole room- a small space for sitting,
at the foot. A graveyard for pets and a pool. Coffee cans filled
with cement that anchor down our swing set.

These things, sometimes, I don't know.

And how is it that we feel the way
that we feel about insulting ourselves?

Not sure what I'm saying.

My stomach still burns sometimes.
Burns with coulda, shoulda, woulda.

Burns with sea-lust and tree-lust.
And wanderlust.

And I could have sworn, holding on
to glimmering wispy bits of a dream
state, that I was standing on the top
of a mountain, looking down. That
I was swimming through a raging sea.
That I was in the grocery store, not a
single label could I read.

I could have sworn I was in your bed,
or your bed, or your bed. (Or really any
of your beds, in dreams it's hard to determine)

And it's hard to determine what I want
sometimes. Most times. All the times.

And I could have sworn, holding on

to glimmering wispy bits of a dream

state, that I was choking, spluttering, 

struggling for breath; wet on a beach

sand under my nails, in my hair. That 

I was being suffocated by blankets, 

pillows, sheets. Strong, strong hands 

but weak wrists- holding me down.

Holding me down but not bringing me down.

Ah, well. These heavy words are hard to speak.
Yet, you must know.

Today, on the train home I wrote something
that is emotionally too much for this place.

So, I'll give you the first line and the last one.
But what's in the middle is mine. It's what I've
realized for myself and it bothered me a bit.


And we ran through that construction site in the
pouring rain, balancing clumsy feet on slick lumber,
like this whole quiet fucking campus was ours.

But coulda, shoulda, woulda steps right in the way.

What would you know about vociferous

opponents with impetuous tendencies.

And what would you know about that place in

between sleep and awake where your mind feels

like spiraling tendrils of nothing, of nonsense.

And what would you know about getting so comfortable

with someone that you just can't love them any longer.

(or you're just not sure if you ever did)

And what, please do tell me, what would you know

about feeling like your brain is fucking rattling inside

of your head, like your cells are vibrating at such a

rapid, uncontrollable pace that you don't what's up is

and even if you were to figure that out, you'd never

know where down was.


But, when you used to lie beside me in bed and

prognosticate, (because believe me, every one of

you have done it), I used to think you were an idiot.

And I'd like to say I take that back, but I can't.

Which is why I made sure we didn't lie any longer

than necessary and then, that we didn't lie at all.

Now, I'll drink to that.
But, then again, I'll drink to just about anything

You know, maybe I haven't DONE enough?
But what is enough? Or rather what is doing?
And when will I know whether or not I've
done enough? And furthermore, how will
I know if my judgement of enough is true?

In conclusion, I should do more.
Even if I'm scared.

Because I am scared, that's what it is, isn't it?

Why I mistook feelings of fear for contentment is

beyond me and also something I've always done.

And I want to renounce it, say no more.

But I'm scared, not an idiot.

I know myself, and my ways, and I'm not going

to do shit. I will be in the same place forever.

Maybe, though, I can take this as a challenge.

The silence is the scariest
thing about going home.

Well, I guess I lied.
Sorry dudes, my bad.

Doing just fine,
always doing just fine.

I am stupid to miss what is not exactly mine.
I am stupid to miss what lies just along that
harried line of yes and no.

Yet I do. Because it's different now, different
now than it even was when it became different.

I knew that this was where it was going to end up.
I truly did and I wish I could say different, then maybe I'd feel less guilt. However, I'm not even sure that guilt is the right word for what I am feeling. I shouldn't have to feel guilty, I mostly just feel stupid.
So fucking stupid for doing this to myself, and I suppose to you.

We'll see what happens though, that's the only real way to do things. Besides, there's a fifty-fifty chance that I'll fuck everything up irreparably and the same that I won't.

I guess that's what gets me though now, got me through then, and will continue to get me through forever.

And the seasonal winds do change.

Today I came into temporary possession of a packet of old writings.

Writings that I was convinced were truly gone for good. They had
disappeared years ago from their original place. Although I diligently
searched for them at the beginning, years passed and not a trace of
them was to be found. So I gave up.
But, today, in some strange stroke of luck I was offered what is
probably the only remainder of what they once were.

These pages were written by an old friend (or something to that degree)
and I am keenly aware that I am not ready to read them yet.

They will leave me feeling the same way he always did.
And I'm sure as hell not ready for that.

Everywhere in the world at any given moment there is at least one person fiddling with a radio dial, making a phone call to their mom, cooking breakfast, flicking ash off a cigarette out the passenger seat window, sketching a face, throwing their laundry in the dryer, taking a photograph, blowing their nose, packing a lunch, grabbing someone else's hand in theirs...

And I guess that means something to me, since I thought it, but I don't plan on searching too hard for the answer.

If everyone else has since decided that consideration is completely
null and void then why must I continue to adhere to these rules?
These simple fucking human rules.
These simple fucking human rules that no one fucking follows.

And you ask me why it's so difficult for me to get along as the
days go on. Well, I'll fucking tell you why. People are disgusting
and inconsiderate. No matter what guise they put on at the
beginning and even if that keep on that facade, deep down they
are still just as selfish and vile as the people you hate.

And I've realized that no matter how much you give,
you will never receive the equivalent back. Because
you will never be on the same plane as that person.
You will never see eye to eye, the meniscus will never
seem to reach the same little notch.

They will never know how much of you they have 
taken so they will never know what to give back.

That, however, seems like an excuse that falls far short of it's
mark. But, don't think that by me stating this that I think I am
not guilty of the same vile human nature. Because I am.

But at the same time, I employ a certain amount of tact when it
comes to executing things that pertain to my morals. Or what I
call my morals but are really just a reflection of my upbringing.

And we've all had different upbringings so it seems brash to say
this about myself, and especially about other people, but this is
what I think and I needed to say it somewhere.

I have more to say on this subject but I am feeling
a bit wrung out at this present moment in time.

I have grown tired of this.
Yet somehow I have yet to outgrow it.
I do the same thing to myself each and every time.

My life is just a series of on and offs.

I hate that some days I want another city, maybe another state over my head. I want to breathe new clouds that are probably just old clouds in a new place, since clouds work that way.

I want a lot of things though. I spend many hours day dreaming or writing fictional stories about people more interesting than me. But sometimes my want gets the best of me, convinces me it's need, need, need. Even though I know it's not. Or something in me knows it's not.

But with my hands around my own neck, it's my own fault. A human fault, or a fault from society, but a fault that falls on my hands all the same.
But, I'm hesitant to change, a little want can make this interesting.

I'm done with this day and it seems to have just started.
This feeling has an oddly frequent reoccurrence rate lately.

I think I can safely say that I am annoyed.
I am sick of the psuedo-competition you've set up.

I don't know if I can deal with this civilly any
longer, but I'd rather not stoop to your level.

I am not the one ruining this. I may have, at
some point, accidentally been, but I am no
longer. I have paid my fucking dues, your turn.

But honestly, this shit falls on you at this point.
And it is fucking crashing down hard right now.

Wait, hold on one second. Back the fuck up.
Is that what you think that was? Is that really
what you think that was? Fuck you. Fuck you.

Seriously, fuck you and what you think is
all-knowing categorization of everyone.

More than half the time you're wrong.

As much as I'm glad to have what had back,
I can still get awful selfish some days.

I guess, at least I recognize it, I'm not deluded
in ways that I can't imagine.

I think we've all imagined ourselves somewhere that we aren't.
But I'm glad things panned out the way they did most days.

The sinking feeling of intended separation.

Yet I still feel it some days and I fucking wish

I didn't because I have no fucking reason to.

I have no ownership and I rarely feel like I have

ownership but sometimes the feelings that I feel

without meaning to are just too fucking much.

Too much and it's all wrong.

To me, there's no worse feeling than being left out.

I AM NOT.
I AM NOT.
I AM NOT.

This is becoming considerably less of a reminder-to-self
and more of a neurotic mantra that I must repeat in sets
of three until the feeling goes away.

But, there's a problem.
That problem is that lately I've been having more trouble
squashing it down. I've been having trouble quelling that
horrible, terrible, angry, churning feeling in my stomach.
And I've come to resentment.
Yet, resentment is the all wrong word.

Because it's not that I doubt the prowess.
And it's not like the above sentence isn't a complete and utter lie.
Because it is.
It's just that the over confidence lacks grace so
I can only assume the rest will follow suit.

My choices always end up with the same outcomes.

I have yet to figure out if that was a
bad idea, a good idea, or just... an idea.

You remind me of many people I won't lose interest in but I am no conquest nor do I need to be won over.

So it goes, I nearly always feel like a dick.

I am easily frustrated lately.

I find myself simultaneously aching for Purchase in the winter
months and the shining bright memory of rope swings into lakes,
camping, barbecues, and sun that exist solely in my dreams.

I need to go, I just can't sit stagnant like this.

Even though I'm only an hour away from home the drive out here had that elevated road trip feeling.

I'm at a family party, for a family that isn't mine, but there's beer, food, fireworks, and a pool, so I feel like I belong.
I love holidays, I really do.

I promise you, one of these days we'll all understand
what possesses us to do what it is that we do.

That day is not today, for I am out of words and out of
willpower. I'm sorry that you have to hurt, but I needed to.

Even the things I love exhaust me now.
I'm getting sick of living certain parts of my life.

I want to live how I live inside my head but my much
more than marginal human error is making that difficult.
And my emotions, the meager
ones that I possess, prevent that.

It seems puerile to want only "happy times and half
assed rhymes" but really I only desire eunoia.

Because either you're there or you're not.
Be happy where you can and complain when you can.
Know when to be and when to drop out. Just be.
Always be.

But I'm wondering if that big dark cloud is me.

Somewhere expensive to live so there's something to complain about.
That's the title.

Today I chased the sunrise like people chase storms.
Couldn't take a picture because my phone was dying. But you can imagine.

Sometimes, when it thinks everyone's asleep, the refrigerator sings to the wall outlet.

Have I always been a fucking spineless piece of shit without the ability to stand up for myself? Or is this just a new thing?

I always thought that maybe I was strong, but I guess it goes to show that you never really know yourself.

I accept this defeat, the weak fucking piece of human waste that I am accepts this defeat.
I have failed myself, my upbringing, and my dignity.
If I ever even had any of that.

The traffic ahead on the highway.
The cars look like shining beatle swarms.
There's a bug infestation that's heading towards New York City.
We haven't got the time or the means to stop them.

The sun! Lying on the grass, stoned, warmed by the sun.
Oh my god, the sun. I had forgotten about the fucking sun.

The beautiful fucking sun! (Breathe in, breathe out. Okay.)

How do you forget something like that?

You don't.

But I fucking did.

God, I'm already thinking of summer, and warm window

sills, and fucking cherry tomatoes growing in the garden,

and driving with the windows rolled down, and beautiful

little bugs and worms in piles of dirt, and warm pools for

me to put my feet in and splash and fucking barbeques

with corn and beer and everyone that I love!

And oh god, the fucking sun.

And under-ripe (yet still delicious) grapes on Janetca's deck,

and wiggling my toes in warm green grass, and drinking a 40

and eating a bag of chips on the dinosaur blanket in the park,

and swinging on swings, and going outside for a cigarette and

not shivering, and just being outside in the sun!

THE FUCKING SUN.

If winter ends, no when winter ends, because it will, just

like it did last year, I'll pack up this baggage and be happy.

I am so excited for the sun.

I'm not jealous, I'm not jealous,
I'm not jealous, I'm not jealous.
Because I don't get jealous.

Am I affirming myself, or stating a truth. I don't know and you
won't know. Maybe a little bit of both? But here I am, sinking
my teeth into my lip, I'm trying not to think.
I have silk screens and things that come in threes. I have a two
AM phone call and a couple of cigarettes left to smoke, or give
away if I choose (which I won't). I have music that makes me
happy and music that makes my fucking body ache with missed
opportunities and sicksicksickness. Oh god.
I'm squeezing my eyes shut as I write this. I am so... unsettled.

Today I read an article about.
Actually, I don't want to talk about it.


But, it felt like a turn of phrase, a vein of vocabulary. One that
mirrors the veins staining your eyes red. The veins that halt all
communication, an impasse.

I am solicitously amenable to everything in that state.
Let's get shitty together, at the dugout.

Lately I've been seeing words in the negative space between lines in a paragraph. And it's worse than "reading between the lines", because it truly is so. If I let myself slide out of focus it's like a whole new story beneath my fingers.

Fiction is a lie.
But sometimes it's one of the most beautiful lies in the world.
So, I guess that's okay.

I don't have a word for this feeling quite yet.
This unsettled way that I always seem to get when I stay
up too late thinking of things I never did and never will do.

Mostly though, right now, I wish that everyone was awake.
I wish that it was like day time. I wish everyone was walking
around, and driving. I wish stores were open, and mainly, I
wish there was someone that I could talk to.

Someone that I could just sit and chat idly with, over a cigarette.
Or some food, or a glass of wine. Or a beer. Fuck, I don't know.

I'm restless as fuck. I can feel my stomach churning like fucking
butter. I can feel my skin compressing my muscles, my veins, my
organs. I can feel myself shrinking. It's nights like these that the
most I can fucking do is hope that somehow I'll just pass out.


I just fucking hope that when I shut the lights off, when I close my
eyes, I'll be out for the count. I won't wake up till the sun rises.

I just fucking hope I don't lay there and stew.

"Because," she said, "I can dream for
you until you get one of your own."

And it's funny, in the way that time seems a little bit funny when
you dwell on it for too long. It becomes even less of a construct
than it even initially is. Time is theory and theory isn't something
you can hold in your hand. Not something you can grasp onto
with your skinny little fingers. Time is like inane, pointless chatter.
Does the world go from sunrise to sunset? Or sunset to sunrise?
Would it make any difference if we went from sunset to sunrise?

Sunset was the beginning of the day and sunrise the end.
If instead of having night when it's dark, we had it when it was light?
If AM was really PM and the other way around.

If you think to much about something, it makes it obsolete.
I've thought to much about time, so it doesn't exist.

That, however, does not mean that I don't have to make it to
work at exactly 6:00. At least not if I want to keep my job.

"Take care of yourself, kid" he told me as I was leaving.
And at that time, I just laughed.

I laughed because I was young, but not much younger than him.
I laughed because I was drunk and high.
I laughed because I was happy.
I laughed because I was still running on that type of adrenaline that only live music and skin can give.

I laughed because I love laughing.
But he was right. It's important to take care of yourself...
I'm kind of the world's worst shunner of responsibility.
I'm disappointed in my inability to take care of myself.

Out the front door.
The front door.
On the street, feet pitter pattering across the same dry concrete stretch. The world looks like rain. Not the humid type, but the cold type of rain, the kind that reminds you that this season's almost over. It's time to move on. But we're not ready.
Going home.
Off the street and into the car. The car is cool. The windows are closed because of the impending rain, and the air is on. The street lights make shadows like paper cups. Nightime makes the car feels like an enclosed airtight capsle. Nothing can touch us now, but we're not reckless. It's late at night and as a being, we're understandably tired.
Going home. 
In the car, exiting the tunnel. It's pouring on the other side. Thunder and lightning are fighting but we're safe and dry and cool in our little wonder of modern technology, the car. We can't hear the thunder and lightening, we can't hear the usual cacophonic noise of the city. The neon lights make the sky pour colored droplets.
And we're home.

I sometimes wake up from strange vivid dreams like that. Where we're leaving her house and then slipping through the Midtown Tunnel on the way back home. Like, I remember all the details, but only when I'm dreaming does it seem like it was once a reality.

And, I'm tired now, so very tired.

Oh god, the snow.
I'd forgotten about the snow.

It's tough to explain on days like these.

My skin feels too small and there's a lump in my
throat the size of a small country. That constant
feeling of needing to puke or cry can get to your
head fast. I'm nervous and upset and happy and
sad and angry and restless. All at once.

It's overwhelming and it's uncomfortable being me.

So I curl up in a strange position in the center of my
bed, I lay flat on my back, I curl up in fetal position
on the floor, I lay on my stomach and rest my head
on my arms, I lay on my left side, and then on my
right, but none of it's right. None.

And I don't know what to do. There's a burning in my
cells that can't be stopped and a myriad of questions in
my fucking head. It kills me to spend ten minutes thinking
about the dead baby bird on the back deck that's been
sitting there for the whole fucking day. It kills me to even
dwell on the fact that I'm angry that other animals don't
bury their fucking dead.

I don't want to be angry anymore. I want to be me again.
I want to be painfully awkward by choice like every other day.

I've watched the sunrise for the last four days.
It feels to me like last summer, when I had so much trouble sleeping at night that I'd just lay in my bed, waiting patiently for the first inkling of morning light to paint my blinds, and then I'd pass out. Only to wake up an hour later, body sore like the early morning sun had burnt the marrow in my bones. Scorched my joints, making me creak like the tin man. Cower in the shade like a lion.

Tonight it felt like early morning, the cool breeze blowin my cigarette ash about. And for a moment I forot where I was, what I was talkin about and with who, and... what season is it again?
I have trouble being tired, but being tired is my trouble. But, trouble seems trivial when sleep won't come.

According to Dante, I'd be in the sixth circle of hell.
The heretics.
My punishment, to burn in god's catacombs, a flaming
tomb, for eternity. When judgment day comes and I do
not pass, the lid is closed and I'm stuck, smoldering
...in a tiny pine box.
I'd also be in circle four, the hoarders and the wasters.
I'm a hoarder and a waster of time. I collect bits of time
to squander into oblivion. Sleeping, eating, killing time.

And I wonder, as I search for the reasoning behind the
strange celestial guidance that the strong part of my mind
would never allow me to have, why in all the pictures of
hell that I come across everyone is naked...

Maybe, if I ignore it, it will go away.

Sometimes, I wake up from dreams not really knowing what happened
in them, but then later, I'll read someone's blog, and it'll all come rushing
back. It's as if, across all of these state lines, god, sometimes even fucking
oceans, everyone of us shares a slight bit of our subconscious.
My subconscious is so divided that I sometimes forget my hometown,
my name, my age. So divided that sometimes I'll answer a question with
something that is so far from the truth that I'm not even sure that I
made it up. I think, that maybe you did.
And because we operate in a strange pristine harmony, because we
have perfect form, like synchronized swimmers, the line between my
thoughts and your thoughts become fuzzy, indiscernible in my mind.
The warm type.

And every time my subconscious splits, it's like a small hiccup in our
routine. Almost like someone's nose descended too far below the water
for a quick moment, and they've breathed in water and it's caught
behind their tonsils and in their throat. Causing that tiny tickle, that
'almost cough', causing them to faltered slightly. And then like military
stepping, a double step the size of an SAT word, and you're back in line.
I can feel the cadence in my bones and since we share the same phalanges
that type and write, I know that you can feel it too.
A thrumming, humming, strumming on nylon strings, stretched taunt
across your ribs. A cage for the sound that you always wanted to make,
made for you by your loving mum and da. And when the car crashes into
the passenger side door, slams into your body, cracking your bones, I will
feel it too. I will feel when your music is set free, when the coroner hears
a tune from deep inside you, loud and clear to the ears. The image of your
face and that tune, stuck in their head for the rest of the week. I will feel
when your music escapes, seeking refuge in the curved, tired ears of the
mortician and his family. Not quite inaudible, but more muffled, murmuring,
muted... muttering.
I will feel where your music settles down, in the fingertips, the tiny
fingertips of the baby at the funeral. I will feel it settle there because
I will hear the child's fleeting elation of the meager music floating from
the casket as it's lowered into the ground, floating in swirling
fall with with leaves and freshly dry cleaned black coats.
Then snuffed out with the first shovel of dirt atop that hardwood finish.

Sometimes dirt is warm, if left out in the summer's sun.
So, please, shovel some dirt on top of my body, as a blanket.
I would like to sleep for a long time.

Why are my entries so fucking long as of late?

There's always going to be something that I wish I had done but never did. Maybe even never got the chance to. And that fleeting moment, that fleeting window of opportunity, will never be opened again like a lockbox with the key lost.
And, I'm warning you now. If you personally know me, in real life, I plan to use names in the next part of this entry. If we spend time together, you will recognize names and you may be able to put faces to them. And since I know that this isn't so hidden anymore, that people do read it, I'm going to warn you that you may even be included in this. Alright, so it's less of a warning, but more of a heads up. This is going to be the least cryptic entry I've ever written.
I think of photography daily. It's actually a constant thing, everything that I see is turned into individual photographs. I am going to type out a list of photos that I wish I had taken. That I wish I had gotten my camera out in time to capture it forever and immaculate on film.


James and Kevin, sitting on each end of a park bench next to their bikes. James with a cigarette in one hand and a black sweatshirt with Wingnut Dishwasher's Union spray painted on the front.

Danny lying on his stomach on my bed, back when it was just the mattress on the floor, with a comic in his hand. Only one light on, casting shadows under my desk.

Pat outside of Catch 22's Winnebago clutching a poster he got from Ed and a pack of Native American cigarettes, the kind you don't have to pay taxes on.

David and Drew in the kitchen with red dye staining their fingers and David's pants, ingredients for a cake visible behind them. Pedro standing on the foremost counter, in the right corner, out of focus.

Brittany sitting by the merch table smiling next to the display of earplugs, water, and tee shirts, with my favorite security guard sitting behind her, eating the peanut butter cups that I bought.

Mike standing right next to that pole on the corner, almost leaning against it, with a cigarette, his glasses slightly crooked, his mouth open in mid-sentence.

From the back seat, Jessie smoking a cigarette out the driver's window, looking straight ahead while Sam talks to him from the passenger's seat, her head turned, looking at him.

Joanna on Halloween, in her detective costume, standing on a stack of wood that's tall enough to let her see over the heads of a great circle of people crowded around a group of street performers.

James at the Hook in Red Hook Brooklyn. In the little enclosed courtyard out the side door, his back facing the gate that the instruments and equipment came through earlier. Slightly overcast day, slipping carefully into night, dusk. A door leaning on hit's side to his right with a perfect number five spray painted on it.

Cody sitting on the washing machine (or maybe it was a dishwasher?) in the corner of his kitchen.

David sitting on my bed, this time the mattress is on the frame, with one of my bras cupped so as to make a circle of sorts, up to his face, pretending that it's a gas mask.

Rob bent over, breaking up a dub on top of a borrowed dollar bill on the little counter next to the sink in the basement of that church on the corner. The one that they somehow found keys to and have a habit of trespassing. A purple pipe, a green bowl, a box of matches, and a half finished cigarette next to him.

Kevin and Mariano (who is wearing a hat with ear flaps) in some park in V.S., Mariano rubbing his hands together for warmth with a smile on his face, Kevin, brow wrinkled in concentration, sparking up.

From the backseat, the well lit sign in front of In & Out lighting up the front on the car. Scott in the driver's seat, head turned towards the window which is mostly open, only allowing you to see the back of his head. PJ's head and shoulders are leaned slightly into the car, the brim of his hat blocking out his eyes. It's clear that they're fighting by the way that PJ's mouth is poised.

Emily and Michelle standing next to the concrete pole in the parking lot near Dunkin, Michelle lighting a cigarette with a barbecue lighter, Emily in a fit of laughter.

Jay Tea leaning against the wood paneled wall of VP South with a half full pint of beer, which is certainly not his first. His mouth is open, he's yelling at the guy in the sound booth because the beginning of the Flaming Tsunami's set is just a phone ringing for five minutes straight.

David's fish tank light on, everything else turned off, casting a warm, orange tinted glow on everything. He's laying partially under the covers, on his side, facing towards the drawers and the heater. A smooth expanse of back is showing, highlighted on it's start near his hip, but faded into shadows.

Taylor sitting on the floor in her room, drunk, playing with her new cat and laughing. Her girlfriend, Shan, Steph, and Katherine are visible in the background, crowded around the computer taking photobooth pictures.

Terri laughing at Kelsey in Union Bagels. Really laughing, not just that little half smile, because what she said was really funny.

Emily in her Daria costume. The black knit ski hat with flaps and tassels, the skirt, the green jacket, and those shiny black lace-up boots.

Kelsey and Joanna in the basement of Five Pointz. It's dark, almost too dark to see, but you can just make out the piles of clothing scraps littering the floor and the creepy as shit cobwebbed sewing machines. It's not posed, their faces are slack in observation, their heads slightly turned away from the camera.

Shan standing outside of Union Bagels waiting for us to finish our cigarettes, disposable camera in hand, talking to Emily about something. The sun is high and bright in the sky.

Matt, in Scott's car, driving down Scranton, smoking a cigarette out the window while playing some skating game on his iPhone. Charlie in the foreground, out of focus, his mouth open, talking to someone in the front seat, the collar of his coat hiding his chin.

Katie in a leather jacket with her nose red from cold and crying, sitting on the floor in the box at the train station. The florescent lights giving her an eerie glow. Safety pin in hand, cleaning out her pipe, a mostly full forty of Olde English to her right. Ryan, from the knees down, wearing jeans, in the left corner.

Meggy sitting at Vince's kitchen table, her skinny arms, skinny wrist, skinny hand holding a cigarette. Denny out of focus on a stool behind her. Smoke clouded around her as she types on her phone. An ashtray as well as two beer cans, a pack of Marlboro Reds, and a cup of orange juice on the table in front of her.

Nick sitting in his computer chair, next to his TV. He's looking forward but he's laughing at the movie on TV.

JP pouring Bacardi into the fire pit at V.S. State Park and then lighting the leaves on fire. His body illuminated against the background of silhouetted trees and somewhere in the distance lights on the highway.

The boy at the Museum of the Moving Image with a too small, dark blue Sonic Youth shirt, skinny jeans, a backpack, and yellow shoe laces.

Dan coming down the stairs from the perspective of someone going up the stairs, at Webster Hall. His face open in a smile and a greeting. His cheeks ruddier than usual in the strange red glow from the light at the top of the staircase that's reflected off the mirror above.

Tom at the Knitting Factory, from outside on the line, with the curtain on one of the windows pulled up. His smile comically large, his hand waving.

Ryan standing outside of In & Out, talking to Kelsey who is sitting on the curb with her coat pulled close around her. Kelly looking uncomfortable in the background. Almost not associating herself with the

Someone's ex-girlfriend, sitting on top an amp outside of a venue in R.V.C., head down. The sun is bright and hot, but she's wearing a black sweatshirt. Connor is visible in the corner of the picture, from chest down. No shirt, no shoes. Green socks and loose jeans.

Emel smoking a cigarette in a blue coat, outside of the school, in the street as not to be smoking on school property, at 9:00AMin the pouring rain.

Evan sitting on a blue rolling chair in front of the door out of the computer lab. The room behind him is lit up but the lab is dark. He has headphones in and is scrolling through his ipod with disinterest.

Britt lying on the table in the printmaking room, her hair splayed out, next to a pile of coats and bags, almost blending in.

Kelsey in Search & Destroy on St. Marks, rifling through a rack of second hand shirts that are organized in color order, wearing a short black dress and tall black boots.

David sitting on a stool in the back of VP South, in the fenced in area, the band's vans and cars are visible through the fence. People that may of may not be Jay Tea and Doug are out of focus in the background, smoking cigarettes.

Johnny's little brother sitting in a chair in Vince's all-white basement, dead asleep, the lights hitting his freshly dyed green hair. People in the background playing a "riveting game" of beer pong.

Brendon in the kitchen of his apartment, arm outstretched toward the fridge door, mouth open in question.

Dave lying in my bed at three in the afternoon, orange sunlight in the winter, all the blankets pulled up around him, bunching in a circle around his face like the mane of a lion.

Joanna standing by the dresser upstairs, the sloping ceiling making her look taller, leaning over to blow out incense on a rainy Sunday.

Vinny in Vince's all-white basement, directly under one of the lights, sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table where a homemade gravbong is sitting. Shot from behind, the blurred figures of Sean, John, and Nicole sitting on the couch in front of him visible through the spikes on his head.

Beau standing in the front doorway, afternoon sun as backlighting. A rust colored scarf tied around his waist and grease from his bike smeared on his nose.

Matt sitting on my wooden chair back when the pile of laundry in the basket used to sit right next to it. Leaned over in jeans with a hole in one knee and a hooded black sweatshirt. Fiddling with a half empty soft, battered, pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes.

Sam and Jenna sitting across from Sam, Jesse, and I at a strange wood panneled, lace curtained diner. Sam leaning forward, hand outstreched towards a plate of french fries that are out of focus in the foreground.

Tom leaning against the wall behind Tofu. Red sweatshirt, black coat, black hat, hood up, that fucking giant earring and a disaffected look on his face. Cigarette in hand.

Shane and Jon is Shane's basement sitting on one of the couches, trying to play some unidentified driving game with a guitar hero controller because the regular controller is broken.

JP under the streelight by the curch, leaning back against the hood of Sean's blue minivan at night. Four kids sitting on the sidewalk in the background. JP's head is titled towards the sky, watching the stars.

Griffin in the underground garage by the Starbucks. Held up by Jesse, in a headlock. Arms blurred with the motion of fighting back. Both boys wear identical broad smiles, betraying the idea that they are really fighting, but instead just rough housing.

Ashley lying on her back in Vinny's backyard on a warm September day. John with the Black Flag tattoo and some other kid that I can't really remember the name of, who my possible be one of Vinny's "cousins" on either side of her. Far enough to almost be out of the frame. The air above and around them is heavy with smoke. Ashley is laughing, sun filtering through the tree branches, casting shadows.

Jimmy leaning over into the crowd at VP South, basically held up by them, in short shorts and a pair of high top hounds tooth Circa's just like the ones I had in low tops. Sweaty strings of hair that have got to be in his face, microphone presses against his halfway open lips. Fucking drunk as hell, and probably singing the wrong words.

Two kids from Staten Island, outside of the Knitting Factory. One of them in a striped sweater, smoking a cigarette, Marlboro Reds, the pack sticking out of his pocket. Both of them staring straight ahead at the camera, the smoking one smiling as he exhales, the other one mid sentence.


I am beyond not done. I promise you that in future entries there will be more descriptions of pictures that I wish I had taken, but never did.

It's funny that I know exactly what to
say at certain times. I know what to say
to create the outcome that I want to see,
but I wonder if I really mean it.

I mean, if it occurred to me at all, then
there must be some truth in it. But, I can't
help but wonder if anything that I think or
say is really true. Is it just a reflection
of what I wish I was. Is there a giant reserve
of true and clean ideas in my head that I have
yet to tap into because society daily helps me
ignore? And if I were to move away. To cut off
contact. To become self-reliant, for everything.

Would my opinions change?
And if they did, (no, when they did, since they
would without a doubt), would it just be the
change in situation, in circumstance? Or, would
it really be that reserve?
That true, clear, pristine opinionated treasure.

The light from the computer screen illuminates my
hands, my face, my arms, and my shoulders; tapering
off once past there. But, mostly it catches my hands.
They look naturally pale but that's not what I'm so
engrossed in. The light makes every single line in my
hand stand out in relief. This strange stark contrast
that looks like a mix of snake skin and age. Scars, the
scars from age, not just age as an abstract concept.
I've never thought about it, but in this very moment,
in this very light, they're almost beautiful. I guess
I'm thinking about what Dave and I were talking about
today. About life experience. I almost feel like each little
line represents something that I learned in my life that
I've actually used more than once.
I suppose that once I'm grown. Once I've stopped living.
Once I know everything, my hands will appear smooth
because the lines will have covered everything, taking a
full layer off of the top. It's strange that the most
experienced would be the cleanest, least calloused hands.

God, Jesus, fuck.
Shit, fuck, Christ.

WHAT DO YOU WANT
ME TO FUCKING SAY?

Do you want me to tell you that I don't know
what to do? Is that what you want me to tell
you? Because I fucking will if that's what
you need to hear. I'm trying to be honest with
you, but you have to give me direction. I don't
have a fucking solution for this shit. I don't
have help that you're not too fucking proud to
take. I don't have anything to give you is
the bottom line.

It's unsettling.
I've forgotten to miss you.

I'm pretty content with watching crappy
TV on Christmas. Crappy TV that I know
for a fact I watched last year.
I'm pretty content with sleeping on Christmas,
in a bed made solely of blankets in a room that
always smells like incense and weed. 
I'm pretty content with smoking a bowl on Christmas
and eating a dinner made of side dishes afterward.
I'm pretty content with spending time on Christmas with
friends in Sam's living room, complaining about music.

I've been pretty content lately.
It's grounding.

It makes me upset when I look at all of the people around me who aren't doing what they want to be doing. It makes me wonder exactly what went wrong, where did their plan fail? Which then leads me into the thoughts of "when will my plan fail"? And, for that matter "what the hell is my plan, anyway"?


And, it's terrifying, because I don't want to get stuck doing something that I do not want to be doing. I see that too often, daily in fact. I see people stuck in places in their lives that they just shouldn't be stuck it. That they just shouldn't have to be stuck in. That they just don't deserve to be stuck in.
And I'm not sure if it's real misfortune or just laziness, but either way, I'm having an existential crisis. It's pretty fucking lame.

I sometimes wonder if the lady that reads the lottery
numbers ever thinks about who's listening to her. I
wonder if she really ever thinks about lottery at all.
I wonder what her opinion about lottery in general is.

I wonder if she ever imagines all of those
people listening with rapt attention, only to her.


Lottery players make me sad.

My legs shake like earthquakes and light looks like
bandages, wrapped around our skin at night. I'm not
scared of the dark, but this coat keeps me warm, sated,
and happy. I miss everything about New York weekends
and I just want to move out of this town. There's so many
other things I'd rather do. But, fuck I'm so lost. I feel like...
sometimes I might be going crazy. This whole routine isn't
working out and I don't have the time or energy to change it.

My elbows itch, this cardigan's too small, and my pants sit
low on my hips because my belt doesn't hold them up any longer.
My shoelaces are tucked in my shoes because sometimes I forget
they're there and I'm afraid I'll trip over them, forget to throw
my hands out to break my fall and smash my nose.

I wish the world was flat like the old days.
Then I could travel just by folding a map.

It might not be my idea, but it sure is a good one.

That simple line about poisonous leaves and childish bravery opens
up this giant pocket of memories that I had no clue it was even possible
to miss so much. Just to be with them, for one more day, like it used to
be, would be all I needed to heave myself out of this stupid slump.

It puts me in pain to think of the way we laughed at the bottom of his
staircase. My stomach aches thinking of the way her feet pointed in as
she leaned on her knees to draw, his fucking fisherman hat, the couch,
the TV, the dirty pair of Vans by the front door.
Even his hellish dog, I miss it all.


In addition to missing that, I also miss Jon and Shane's attempt to play
a racing game with a guitar hero controller,  "prom night" in the rain, the
heat of the subway and getting lost on the way to Kew Gardens. I miss
Gries Park in the wintertime and advent calenders and smoking in Shane's
car, drinking red label and watching Logo, and all of those stupid stupid
ideas that we had and carried out.

What it all boils down to is the fact that I miss having free time
to do what I want to do with the people that I really love.

Kelsey says they're like cattle, the kids in our school.
They travel in droves, herded from class to class.
She says that sometimes, over the roar of their voices,
she hears animal noises, like the cafeteria is a barn.

I think that she's right, but not for the same reasons.

It's nights like these that are the problem. The nights where all I can think
about is this one totally unattainable dream of mine. and I watch all these
fucking videos and look at these photos, and look at how they live and I
want it so hard that it hurts, and all I can do is just smoke a fucking cigarette
and then like, procrastinate on the papers I have to write, and take some
fucking pills to finally go to sleep.
But I still fucking wake up in this horrible funk, like I was dreaming about
being one of them and then when my alarm went off, I realized that it was
just a fucking dream and I was so fucking devastated. I have no idea what
I should really think about this shit, but fuck, I don't know.

Because it's like, shit, I could be painting, or fucking writing or something
but I can't get everything into words fast enough for any of it make sense
at all, in the fucking least, and I just wanna grow up.
There's this thing that Jason Dill said about New York in an Epicly Later'd
show and he was like "New York, when I first came here was like if you
were nine years old and fucking hated school and you wanted to eat
whatever fucking shit you wanted to eat and you didn't want to do a
goddamn thing and your parents were just dope addicts and they didn't
give a fucking shit and you'd just go outside and it was as if your whole
neighborhood was like kids filled with that same deal, like their parents
didn't give a fuck, you'd go play and do whatever the fuck you want and
the streets were lined with candy and fucking like slides and like rope
swings into pools and that's what it felt like when I first got to New York.
Like, I don't have to do fucking shit, this is awesome, I can fucking smoke
weed and do all these fucking drugs just like whoo! You just like step
outside and you just like get conveyed into the fucking clubs and
bars and phyconess, and..."

And I don't know if it's because I've always lived here, or whatever, but
I don't feel that. I want to fucking feel that, but I'm so fucking attached
to this stupid-ass dirty place that I don't want to move but I think that
the only way that I'll ever feel that is if I move. It's like, when I go to
visit someone else for a few days and everything's so chill, and I can do
whatever the fuck I want and everything's so fucking novel and there
are all these new people to meet and make fun of and like totally fucking
fall in love with because they're so damn awesome, but I don't think I'll
be able to feel that for my whole time living somewhere, so I guess I'll
just have to keep traveling all over the place, and not have some grounded
place to go back to. But the problem is that I have to much fucking shit to
carry with me from place to place, and I would consolidate if I fucking could,
but like everything's so important and familiar that I can't. And, I don't know
where I'm going with this, because I really have to write that fucking paper,
and whatever, but I'm so fucking stuck in this ridiculous mindset where I'm
like a couple of years older and just like fucking having the time of my life
and the sad thing is that I just can't realistically see that ever happening.
Life feels like such a giant waste if I can't do exactly what I want to do and
get fucking paid for it, but there's nothing that I like to do that I'd ever
actually get paid for, and like.... I don't fucking know.

And, I'm really sorry if you read this and it makes no sense to you, because
I just kept typing up the shit that I was feeling and I didn't really go over it
to see what I fucked up on, or whatever, and I've been going crazy because
I've been working so damn much and I haven't been sleeping and I just had
my first proper meal in a few days, so do, please excuse me, but I sincerely
hope there's someone, anyone, out there who reads this and is like "fuck,
that's what I've been feel lately- like I'm crawling out of my skin because
my mind is growing through years, but my fucking body is the same age."
because then maybe we could split the cost of one of those fucking storage
spaces and throw all our extraneous shit in it and take all this fucking saved
money and just go. Just fucking go, and just fucking be.

I'll think, if winter comes, no wait, when winter comes,
because it will, (the rotation of the seasons hasn't failed
me yet) I'll be back in control. It'll be free time, cold hands,
cold kisses. It'll be my safewarmandsecure coat in the woods
in Queens with a beer in my hand (drinks never get warm in
the winter like they do in the summer, because every thing's
so cold, which is awesome cause I hate warm beer!). It'll be
crystal breath and red high in everyone's cheeks.
People are more beautiful in wintertime.

Matt tells me this winter it won't snow. I haven't wrapped
my head around why I'm so despondent. (to sit down and
think about it requires time that I don't have). He tells me,
while we sit on the back porch smoking cigarettes, waiting
for the methadone to kick in, that the snow insulates us-
quiet and serene.
It makes me scared to think that winter may be different.
It makes me scared to think hat while winter usually grounds
me- the cold like slap in the face (stunning for a moment, and
then subduing)- this winter may not be the same. Witout my
seasonal grounding, I'm afraid of that well-learned downward spiral .

In winter I'm invincible. Paralyzed by cold instead of fear.

When it comes down to it, home and
house are not the same words. At all.

Life is crippling.

I now know the real meaning of growing pains.
HA.

Light blinks heavy in my eyes. My pupils dilate and
my eyes prickle. They sting. They're dry and they
almost feel sandy because I'm so accustom to this dark.
Ouch, and my body is laden. I'm creaking with age that
I physically shouldn't have. There are bruises that aren't
visible, as well as some that are, but in the strange
florescent light everything seems bruised. When the lights
go out I am but whole, but when they're on, I'm damaged
goods. They tell me at work "write off anything that you
wouldn't buy" and honestly I wouldn't buy me. I'm not
even good enough for donated spoils, I'm a few days stale
already, so just scan me and X me off with a permanent marker.
Throw me in a trash bag, wheel me out.
My warm breath fogging the bag;
I'm fucking suffocating.
The end is near and the smell is rank.

Right now, I'd like a very large cardboard box. I would stuff it with
blankets and pillows, like I used to do when I was youngyoungyoung
(younger than I am now, because I'm certainly not old at the moment.).
I would lay in there until I fell asleep.

Comfort now comes corrugated, boys and girls.
Step right up, it's free if you ask nicely.

I went to they shoe store and I bought the ugliest pair
of shoes that I could find. I'm not sure people understand
the concept really, but I keep using car accidents as an
example. People slow down, or even stop to stare at a
horrible bloody mess. People are addicted to shit like that.
These were so ugly that I needed to have them.

But, honestly it's more than that. I couldn't get them off
of my mind. It was like a sick fascination. They were
burned into my brain. A bowling shoe shaped scar in the
soft, delicate, tissue of my brain. The damage was worth it.

The shoes cause blisters. They match nothing. They look like shit.
I'm so glad I bought them.

"I don't even know why you're looking at the towns,
basing your decision upon them. From what it sounds,
all of your time is going to be spent in the studio."
She says, voice muffled from the sound of the air.

God, fuck, no. If I want out,
I will find a way, trust me.

I just need an escape route.

I guess the best part about missing a season is
that I forget all of it's less redeeming qualities.
The same way I forget the deathly heat of a show
after I've left the venue.

One day, I'll leave everything, all of my worldly
possessions and I'll reinvent myself. I'll miss them,
just like I'll miss the breathy winter whisper in my
ear. I'll think "one day they'll resurface" I just
have to wait another quarter of a year for them.

They're worth it.

I'll miss my friends and their voices like I miss the
sweaters of fall and the sunburned necks of summer. I'll
miss those places and the memories that we thought would
kill us at the moment, but we ended up laughing about in
the end. I'll laugh in futures face because I know that
one day future will laugh along with me.

I'll realize that 500 miles isn't a measure of distance
or time but rather a measure of my perseverance, my drive.

And we'll all breathe the same heavy humid party air,
saturated with smoke and beer, white powder in my nose
and pills in my stomach. I'll never again be jealous of
the young and in love because I'll have seen it from all
angles. I'll know it's flaws and they'll be no reason to
be reacquainted because we'll already still know each other,
inside and out. It'll be the same motions in the night and

I'll think "If winter ends..."
No, wait! When winter ends, because I'm sure it will, all
I'll miss is frosty lashes and shaking hands. Which isn't
much to miss. I guess I just want to know- are you listening
to the differences of what this season means to you and I?

Today you asked me if I trusted him, and I
want to let you know that I did, I honestly
did trust him, until you said it.

Some things are ruined when you talk about them.
Some things are ruined when you acknowledge them.
Some things start out ruined.
It's vital that you learn the difference.

If you tell me where you've been, I'll tell
you who you are. Because, being right is overrated,
and my impressions of your travels aren't exact but
at least they're hard, fast, and true.
You are as elusive as today's events were. I do not
know what to make of you but I know, that if you fold,
if you give in, I can make you something. Not something
different than you already are, but... I can make you
a stronger version of yourself.

The rounded edges of an old photograph, like the
rounded surface of your coffee cup, or his face.
Seeing is believing, but touching (purely, or
impurely platonic touching) is knowing.
Or, at least as close to knowing as I'll be able
to find at such short notice.

My embittered tongue seems to have calmed down
lately. I can't be hostile in the workplace, so
I'm having trouble being hostile outside of it.
I can't even summon up a good insult, which is
strange since they used to be on the tip of my
tongue at all times.

I make it sound like I'm downgrading from being
mean to being nice, because, despite what most
people would think, I am. It's not enjoyable for
me to be like this. But, I succumb to the pressure
because I get 10% employee discount and I'm paid
more than minimum wage.

I always thought that time was a concept that we, as humans,
searching for some type of control in our everyday lives, made up.

Today, I realized that, although time usually directly correlates
with it, age, along with time, is something that we humans made up.

If you really want to gauge your age properly? Determine how much
and your rate of deterioration. Because that's what getting old is, isn't it?
Getting old is when you start falling apart piece by piece. Each bit ailing
a bit more daily until you just cease to function.
If you're lucky, that process won't take too long.

The air was so thick, like cotton
or some synthetic fiber, that I
was convinced it would in up in
flames when I lit a cigarette.

In the swarming haze of powdery lines and comedy
movies that were never funny, he fell asleep.
Dead asleep, and he dreamt of flying over a vast
ocean, toes skimming salty waves teeming with life
that I'll never even have the capacity to store
half the names of. (Make that 1/23rd of)

Sleep starts when the night forgets we're here.
The night's been keeping a tight watch on me as
if I'm a matter of homeland security.
Sleep evades me.

How badly I take criticism disappoints me.
And, it's not like I haven't thought about
this before, but it's fresh dissatisfaction
each time. I'm having trouble defining it.

You see, the real problem with those fucking people who think
they're ever so charming is that they usually fucking are.

The way that you flick your hair out of your eyes, that smirk,
and your casual demeanor: they're all killer. I just want to
punch you. I want to punch your perfect fucking nose; I want
to break it. Because, guess what? Perfection isn't sexy because
it's all too false.
If your nose was crooked, and your haircut was a little awkward, and
your smile was a lopsided smirk, then maybe I'd consider you. But, as
you are now, in all your perfect fucking glory, you are boring.

The feeling of knowing it's too late.

The walls are in distress and the floor is
beginning to crumble. Each chip away leaves
tangled webs of steal barbs that make up the
foundation of the floor. These crisscrossing
metal spears serve better than any thousand
dollar window pane, because they let you see
what's inside, what's down on the ground below,
rather than what's outside.


Yet, through this mess is a claim made by a
boy. A claim to a throne of decrepit stairwells.
A gloating story of quests and great heights,
surrounded by marvels that were never meant to
be described as so.

Early fall exits with a tiny curtsy. The
aftertaste of seclusion and cold tobacco.
Hooves make deep prints in newly fallen
snow; possibly elks.
Every detail is remembered and committed as
a light, an afterglow, in a closed case file.

White dresses, black tights,
white socks, black shoes.

He's a symphony for demanding and
his voice is always wrecked.

But, the people call for emotion;
we want sharp, we want private,
and we want perfect, so rip those
vocal chords raw.

Today I crossed the street without looking
and I made someone have to stop short.
I couldn't meet their eyes when I waved.

Guilt is an interesting and crippling thing.

You be me for a few concise
moments, and I'll be you.

I'll slip into the uneasy stammer of sleep.

It's not that you insult my intelligence, at
least not the way the expression truly means.

I do not desire to sound pretentious but you
insult the fact that I am intelligent. This
makes me more angry than it will ever make me
sad, which is sad in itself.
How dare you mock for using a word that sounds
funny to you, because you're unfamiliar with it.
How dare you mock me for sharing a fact that you
never even bothered to learn because you thought
the topic was ludicrous or unnecessary.
How dare you, how dare you, how dare you.
It's rude, and it only serves to cause me to
think of you as a completely ignorant asshole.

So, bury your head in the sand; surely if you
can't see me, then I can't see you, and you'll
sucessfully avoid the tangible fury of my fist.

Heres the difference, I am capable of more
than half the damage I would like to do.

I really don't think that living without morals is an issue.

I wish you could shop for places in time.
They'd come in labled cans, like soup, fruit
or vegetables do. I'd buy the most uneventful
day ever. I'd buy a whole pallet of them.

I'm scared when I watch footage of
civil rights protests. I don't even
mean just the anti- segregation ones,
I mean any of them.
We don't have that drive any longer;
I wonder where exactly it's hidden.

I'll check under the rug, you
get the couch cushions. We'll
reconvene in fifteen minutes.

When I think of you in my head, I
see a celebrity waltz and a mask of
mosquito born diseases. Possibly a
walking display of distributive justice.

And it is strange that I desire to be the
beautiful mess that she once was.
In fact, strange doesn't suffice, because
this yearning is sort of sordid or nauseating.

Just think of all those times she could've
died. It's morbid, I know, but my interests
often lie in morbidity, rather than material
fame. Because I'm not interested in the people
she met and knew, and went to clubs with.
I'm interested in her dangerous life style.

Most basically, danger is alluring and if I
could have a brush with death every night,
then I would, in a single, solitary heartbeat.

Just because you are not speaking English,
doesnt mean that I can't understand you.

What he said was true. Hardships come in twos,
which means this is going to happen again and
again. It might seem different on the outside,
but deep down, in the giant V that is life, it’s
going to be the same until it’s solved or annihilated.

I wonder if this goes for anything else. Are we
doomed to repetition, everything over and over,
things getting stale and losing their thrill.
But maybe that’s what growing is:
part discovering, part trial and error

Learning what not to repeat.
Don't put hand on hot stove.

That giant glass building in my eyes,
Death Cab for Cutie's "We Looked Like
Giants" sounding in my ears, and the
wind disheveling my hair. It's Sunday
morning, and I didn't die last night.

I'm not sure what this unsettling
feeling is trying to tell me....

More than you impress and inspire me,
you scare the shit out of me. I think
you're so beautiful that I'm horrified
by your plethora of problems. It makes
me sick to my stomach. But, I know that
without them this wouldn't be as moving.

The classic "glug, glug, glug!" of milk
spilling out of a container and onto the
floor is louder than any sound in the world.

There's a lot more milk in a quart than you realize.

But that's not the first instance of clumsiness,
for I've been all wrong with my depth perception
for weeks now, and I forget I'm holding things.
It's ruining everything.

I'm the first one I deceive.

I am suffocating in this land of trees,
and guess what? I don't give a shit,
because it's amazing in this building.
There is an explosion of amazing &
wonderful talent all over the walls.

I won't ever get in.

Sometimes, when I look out and see
how big everything is, and how far
we've come, I can't help feel an
insufferable amount of pride.

This usually occurs when I'm
under the influence of Marijuana.

In some sort of foreign post-clarity, I
found a pair of hands willing to stop mine.
But, willing is different than succeeding,
and you will always be testmate to the truth
of that statement.

There's a graveyard in the city, so
tightly packed that the dead must be
buried on top of one another, like
the mass graves of the war, with a
more personal spin.

The bigger tombstones are for those
who believe in death. When I die,
I don't even want a stone.

Sometimes, I see guns in the white streaks on
the chalkboard. Sometimes, I see knives in the
whites of your eyes. Sometimes, I'm so angry
that my muscles clench and I make myself sore.

And, all I can think of lately are those
extended filter Parliament cigarettes, hot
tar, and summer. But, whenever I reach out
and pull towards those days, all I seem to
be doing is scratching at my eyes.
One day, I'll make myself blind.

You can sound sore but careless all you want.
I don't care at all. I just can't have you
curving around particular words and deflating
across syllables like you used to. It scares me.

The moment your voice sinks into that sound,
I can see the nebulous quality in your pupils.
The last time I saw that, it didn't end in good news.

When I cease to breathe, there will be no ripple.
There will be nothing, and it will be monumental.

This post is about not doing something that
needs to be done. This post is about the fact
that I was convinced that I didn't care, until
I realized that I did all along. This post is
about how caring is totally not worth it. This
post is about sentences that I refuse to finish
because I'll never know who'll read them and
immediately know that they're about them. This
post is about the sinus headache that plagues
me each time the sky's floodgates open up. This
post is about lemon sorbet and handshakes. This
post is about tax on unnecessary food items,
and melting soft service frozen yogurt. This
post is about salad dressing and awkward smiles.
This post is about unfinished collabs and batteries.

This post is certainly not about making lists.

And, I'm wondering if this happens
to other people? Have you ever been
in a stressful situation and you
look down and see that you've been
unconsciously running your nails
over the top of your arm, and if you
don't stop soon, you're going to bleed?
Or you've been unconsciously biting
the inside of your lip, and you are
actually bleeding? Or you've been
unconsciously digging your nails into
your legs and the crescent shaped
indents have accents of red pooling
in them? Or you've been unconsciously
tapping your collar bone with your
fist, hard enough for there to be a
distinct bruise there the next morning?

I am a static presence, causing malfunctions
in electronics wherever I go. I am morally
bankrupt, and it's working out just fine. I
am the fascinated disgust that dragoons you
to garner the mental strength to open up this door.

You think I need to be disciplined, cause I
can't seem to hold my tongue? Well, I'm not
a child any longer. I can save, I'm convinced.

But, as always, my lies are pretty convincing.

I'm struggling and scrambling up a sharp pile
of words today. I want to be king of the hill.
It's childish, I know, but my mouth can't seem
to grasp, to catch hold, on one single articulate
word today. It's like biting your tongue and having
to swallow the blood because there's no where to
spit in this wall of people.

Sometimes I wonder if when seagulls glide
through the air, and begin the decent down,
they feel that jump and swell in their
stomachs like humans do when they fall.

That feeling is the greatest example,
the epitome, of a love/hate relationship.

Don't lie to me, just don't tell me the truth.
I lift my feet on this balance beam, and I slip.
I fall, graceful. Watch my hands splay, grasping
air, but never giving. Watch me imagine what it
would be like to not know anyone who's dead now.

So, names don't matter. If they didn't then, well,
they sure don't now. But I'm still not sweet.

I said you were special-
you said you were lonely.

So I turn my eyes to the ceiling:
I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.
(But, I will. This is for you.)

I barely want to talk about anything
anymore, and I know that doesn't
qualify as redeeming, at all.
But, words, spoken words, not typed,
or even written, are the only ones
that make any sense, again.
Without them, I might as well be
tonelessly squinting into the wind,
or fluttering by light, moth-like.

One day, I was sure, if offered, I'd go back.
This is clinomorphism, without any scent, with-
out even a hint, of a simplified medical condition.

The very second I was convinced that I
was riding in the back of that taxi, to
the airport, was a falsehood. I could run
over a dissertation of them, but I won't-
BECAUSE I DON'T WANNA TALK ABOUT IT.

I will answer comments tomorrow.
I just, can't today...

Quirk an eyebrow and flirt with a grin.
An indiscriminate mixture of colors filter
through my eyelids like a kaleidescope.

And, finally, I'm happy.
I'm a happy, in a dream, under the covers, at one in
the afternoon. Fuck school for the second half of the
day, fuck the company I could have, fuck the mail I
should send, fuck the shower I could take, fuck the
cigarette I could smoke, fuck the places I could go,
and just sink into my crooked mattress that lies
halfway on the bed frame, and halfway on the floor.


I want to mouth words into your skin, until they
permeate & become a mantra in your mind. I want you
to experience the type of happiness that I felt this
afternoon. It was good news. I am good news today.
I want to know what it feels like to be that happy
everyday. That happy, all by myself, no drugs.

"I only recognize one of them,
so they don't have ears."

Well, that may not make a single
ounce of sense, but I really wish
that I didn't have a mouth, most
days. I always say that politics
make me throw up. Well, guess what?
They really did this time.

Okay, it was probably the cheap
vodka, the vicodin, and the weed.
But pretending's okay.

There's a snake in the grass. He has a mustache/beard
combo, and thinks he's pretty cute. He likes the idea
of unforgivable things and he's never thought any of
his body parts were useless, cause they're not.

He'd apologize, but he doesn't feel much like lying.

Sometimes I'm sentimental. Which, must seem
like a giant lie to most who know me, but I
promise it's true. It's just, sometimes,
unfeeling is less embarrassing and tedious.

But black ink on a bar napkin, with a bumpy ring from a
bottle, a can, a glass, isn't poetry. Black, synthetic,
eyelashes, and clicking computer keyboards aren't poetry.
Bubbles in paint, dirty shoe prints on the kitchen floor,
and broken cameras aren't poetry. Dead batteries, shopping
carts, squeaky hinges, and exposed electrical wires aren't
poetry. Headlights, paper clips, burnt wood in an old fire
place, the phone ringing incessantly, and
bad hair cuts aren't poetry.

I'm not poetry, and neither are you.

Sometimes I am monomaniac.
I realized, last night, that all of my
career choices aren't going to get me
anywhere. I realized how I hate money
and calf-like crushes. I realized that
I'm not fair with my explanations.

I just want to be found, not profound.

I'm not decent, and I'm not too good at
tactical evasion. Most days, I'm dour.

last night was so cold that all i could think
about were stray cats. all i could think about
was walking up the next morning and seeing dead
cats everywhere. frozen to death in the night,
frozen in place. who would pick them up? who
would dispose of their lifeless bodies, and how?

i realized then, that's i'd freeze to death if
it would save those cats. never for a human i
value, but for cats... fucking cats,
i don't even have a cat.

that scared me so badly,
that i could barely sleep.

last night, i dreamt the moon
light melted the snow while i
was sleeping. i've never been
less lucid, or more happy.

sometimes, in the moments before
sleep encompasses my being, i close
my eyes. i imagine everyone with
different proportions.
i guess that it's a weird hobby,
But long legs, a huge smile, and hands
the size of dinner plates, wow.

there are kids living in the dust.
their dirty faces are camouflage,
they melt into the soil, leeching
nutrients. so watch where you plant
your silly flowers, and i'll watch
where i flick my ashes, cause it
could be someone's home.

these cigarettes taste like
blood, sweat, and peppermint.

where were you the time we took all those
happy photos, only to loose the camera the
next day? where were you the time it rained
so hard that our skin was numb from so many
raindrops hitting us? where were you that
time she was in the hospital for four day?
where were you the time the mouse ran across
the basement floor of the old house? where
were you the time the pot boiled over and
burnt the tiled floor? where were you the
time we climbed the scaffolding up nine
floors? where were you the time his brother
got his nose broken in a fight? where were
you the time we watched that kid bounce on
the wooden plank covering the third rail?
where were you that time she was so mad, she
poured her soda over my head? where were you
that time that his dog bit my ankle?

where were you that time we all lived?
where were you that time i made this list?

you give new meaning to biting
the hand that feeds you, since
you pretty much just spit in my face.

i wish i could write about one
person, always. i wish there was
one human that meant that much to
me, but there's not. each time that
i say "you", its a different person.

and, guess what?
it pains me to write sometimes.

when i woke up, there was sand on the
bottom of my pants, and leaves stuck to
my coat. i've never sleepwalked in my
life, but i guess things change.

all i can remember is her saying "is that
a group of kids?" no, that's not. those
are trees. crooked, crooked trees, wearing
black sweatshirts, hoods pulled up. they're
looking at us too, i think they might know. i
think they know that we hopped that spiky
fence, they know we walked out onto their
dock. we walked into the water, their lake,
and we swam to the bottom. there we started
a brand new colony. we invited everyone we
missed, and warned them to watch the fence.
you never want to hurt the people you love.
all we ate were cookies, and all we drank
were milkshakes. i don't even like cookies.
we had a grand time, a party if you may.

"the closer the food comes from earth
the better it is for your body" she says

well, maybe i'll drink a nice tall glass
of boiling magma, that's straight from
the core of the earth.
ILL LIVE FOREVER.
or, at least longer than
you, you hippie fuck.

last night wasn't as cold as i thought it
would be. so, my three o'clock window of
escape wasn't so terrible. except for this
antsy feeling that i can't shake. last night,
i heard planes and i wanted to go. i wanted,
like i've never wanted before, to get on a
plane, a red-eye flight, straight to somewhere
... no transfers.
i don't have the money, the time, the
responsibility, the anything, to do this.
but, i swear to god you'll see the last of
me, if i don't get the fuck out of here soon.
honestly, this is the best i can hope for.

IM CRAWLING IN MY FUCKING SKIN, OKAY?

imagine if you woke up one day, and you were back
in fourth or fifth grade, and everything that had
happened in your life was really just a giant dream
from the overactive imagination of a ten year old.

i'd live my life out, making all the same choices
as i dreamt, because if i didn't i wouldn't be here
right now. i might not be standing on this roof with
three of my best friends, i might not have
met you, i might not have broken my arm, i might not
have mourned (ever), i might not have turned out to be me.

you're out of my clutches,
so go, go, go! go on, and
dadadance. it's the right
thing to do. i will admit
that i'm jealous but...

please, i'm bad news and we know it.

your car smells like the liquorishy, sea
colored, foam blocks that i had when i was
small. the ones that i would play with on
the enclosed front porch that we used to
have. it also smells like playdough. the
red playdough that i used to mold into
shapes, in the sweltering heat, in a queens
public school. the same red playdough that
i once discovered rat droppings in.
your mother's spanish accent sounds just
like the one that the girl who lived in
the apartments across from had. the girl
who, for my birthday, bought me a barbie
doll that i already had. a barbie doll i
pretended to like, then returned the very next day.

everything about your car should comfort
me, since my childhood was good, but it
just doesn't. all it does is make me miss
baldwin. all it does is make me want to
see everyone that i miss, before i die.
i want one good night, before i'm gone.
i want a drunk, a angry, i want a fuckfuckfuck.
i want too much. i am so selfish.

i want to be beautiful like your mother.
it's not conventional beauty, but you've
got to be some type of beauty to deal with you.

When global warming hits,
we'll all have waterfront property.
My mom always wanted waterfront
property, maybe she'll finally quit bitching.

yesterday i woke up from a dream where
my hair was bleeding. i know that it's
not possible, but i still ran, fast,
to the mirror behind the door, causing
a dizzying head rush, like none i've
ever experienced before. and, i nearly
screamed, after seeing all of the red,
until i realized that was just my hair color.

i wish humans didn't have to sleep.

we can jump from the third floor window,
i have a built in parachute of words; it
hasn't failed me quite yet. or, if you'd
like, we can take the elevator.

but, where's the fun in that?

until i see you for real, until i can touch the
skin on the inside of your wrist, until my head
fits soundly in the crook of your neck, you'll
reside in my mental purgatory. sure, you can go
to work, and even school if you choose, but you're
hidden up there. you aren't mine, i don't want
you to be, but i think i miss you.

i secretly cross my barbwire fingers, hoping that
every bone in my body will liquefy and i can just
slide my way over to you. we can be coltish and
pull fire alarms. we can ache, or rather i can ache,
until the i feel the rushing of blue veins under
my sensitive finger pads. until then, goodbye.

saying goodbye is an important part
of interactions. so important to me,
that when the time comes, i'll probably
ruin my plans with it.

i'm not chickening out, i am just trying
to condition myself to quit caring already
so it won't be an issue.

THE HARDEST THING THAT YOU WILL
EVER BE IN YOUR LIFE IS VULNERABLE.

I feel vulnerable when i am like a crab
and when i am walking in the grass with
socks on. i feel vulnerable when i'm
cutting out pictures and when i realize
that i think you are something else. i
feel vulnerable when watching b- quality
movies and when i'm in the same room with
two turtles (one dying, slowly). i feel
vulnerable when i think of how i miss the
time spent crouching low by the tracks,
and when my gum runs out of flavor. i feel
vulnerable when i say i miss you (and you
don't fucking say it back)and when i
jump at silly sounds.

the day i grow my little crab claws, i
won't feel vulnerable anymore.
I'LL MISS YOU, VULNERABILITY.

i actually had a lot of qualms about posting these, because
it's obvious this blog isn't nearly as private as it was
when it began (not that i'm complaining). it's just hard
to say shit sometimes, without giving all of the wrong
impressions, but i guess ... i'm trying.

every single morning is a struggle.
everyday it becomes harder to actually
get up out of bed. It's not that i can't
wake up, because i can, it's that, daily,
my desired to start the day diminishes
... tenfold.
most days, i find it hard to see the point.
it's too much work to deal with people and
issues; i can't cope with petty conversations,
assholes, ingesting nutrients & hydrating,
getting dressed, producing regular facial
expressions, and meeting useless deadlines.
i used to take pride in my problem solving
skills, but now i can't, because i can't even
fucking solve this bullshit.
to put it plainly, i'm scared of this lack of
effort i put forth, with everything (even
things that i like doing.). honestly, every
single day, at increasingly frequent intervals,
i think of how great it would be to never have
to wake up, ever again.
i suppose that could be construed as an issue.

"i'm sorry." he says; he almost sounds genuine.
"we're all sorry." i say, "for example, i'm sorry
that i woke up this morning."
his shy smile twists until it resembles something
that could be considered a frown, or even a grimace.
i guess i feel guilty; i also guess i'm pretty good
at sounding almost genuine.

has anyone ever told you, that i'm a
sucker for cute boys? but, not in real
life, only in photographs. i don't like
them in real life, because in real life
they talk. in real life they shift in
wrinkled shirts and their shoes get scuffed
up. in real life, they eat your food and
break your heart (thankfully, not mine though).
in real life, the drink in their cup sloshes
onto the floor and their glasses get smudged.
in real life, they say all of the right things
and get cigarette ash on their pants. in real
life, they have jobs that take up time and
families that take up more- timeless attachments.

and all of this happens the moment after the
flash goes off, because for that split second
of light, time obviously doesn't happen.

in real life, people are just not as pleasant.

sometimes, i don't know how to deal with
myself around people. i don't know how to
act, don't know how to treat them, don't
know what to say (or what's acceptable to
say). sometimes, it's only because we've
just met and i haven't had time to get used
to it. but other times, it doesn't matter
how long i've known them, i'll always feel
that unease. it's characterized by that
awkward feeling in the pit of my stomach,
like snakes are weaving in and out my
ribcage. the one that makes me nervous.

i'm glad that i had a point in time where
i didn't have to feel that with you. i'm not
so glad that this new found apprehension
seems to be bringing it back.

i refuse to be small and pink.
i refuse to follow orders.

I AM NOT A LITTLE KID ANYMORE.
I AM NOT SCARED OF ANYTHING.
...but i am. i can write you a
lengthy list of things that i am
deathly afraid of, but i won't.

i'm certainly not afraid of cake,
babies, and axe murderers. surely
i can't be in fear of the way your
cat used to look at me, domestic
violence, terminal velocity and
drowning. nor am i afraid of letter
bombs, lead poisoning, and shades.

she doesn't think of smoke the way that
everyone else does. for her, there are
no tendrils, there is no beauty in all
of it... only great balls of smoke.

throat shaped, coming out of pipes and
cigarettes and i wonder why she looks at
it this way, but i wouldn't ever ask. she
probably wouldn't understand.

i'm overoverover it. no more
thumb experts for me. i haven't
found anyone new, my family's
still alive, and i still hope
one day to achieve selflessness.

my predictions were all wrong,
but i'd still like to go to space.
do you still wanna come with me?

I WILL ONE DAY BE A SPACE CADET.

everything is so loudloudloud
in my ears. everything is so
coldcoldcold on my hands.
i am a shitstorm of salt on
your wounds today, i believe.

i exhuast myself by thinking
too fucking much.

today, i am glad for:
the arrogant sons of bitches.

i want a cigarette and a song.
i want a day off and a big bed.
i want a skateboarder and an ipod.
i want a refund on wasted time.
i want a free ride and new hands.
i want a tripod and a grenade.
i want a disease and an apartment.
i want a new friend and pasta.

i want a portrait of my life.

i don't know if it's right for
me to take it. i'm afraid self
image will color it all wrong.
so, i want someone else to take
it. the problem is, no one
i know is a photographer.

sometimes i feel like the internet is
the predator. it sucks in lonely high
school students, lures curious kids,
presents it self to bored housewives,
is sought out by desperate perverts,
and hounded by knowledge-thirsty scholars.

...but then i realize, that the
internet is no predator, but i sure
am. i prey on a completely different
category of kids, however.

somehow, a rickety wooden desk fails to translate
into a rickety wooden casket. and, somehow, the
water that filled up the freshly dug grave, that
you had the desire to drown yourself in, fails to
translate into a much needed rainstorm.

so, write a song, or a book.
so, paint a canvas, or a mural.

but, make sure it's about how i only find it in
myself to appreciate broken, soft-edged, theorizing
boys, with ridiculous panning statements that take
the edge off of the natural chill. make it about
how it's so loud in here, that i can barely hear
my own breathing. make it about saying the wrong
name, synonym to guilt. make it about quiet nodding
(as if nodding could be loud) and poorly aligned prints.

and, i guess, if you want, you could make it about
teeth, cause i think yours are perfect, and is
unimportant as that may seem, it's really big.

everyone wants to be eye catching.
but, if everyone were, in fact, eye
catching, it'd be too confusing. you'd
never know where to look and there'd
probably be lots of car accidents.

so what? i'm like that sometimes;
randomly overwhelming. so what? i
felt important for five months and
no i don't. so what? yes, it fucking
hurts. so what? i guess i'm human
after all, goddamn it.

the thing is, diplomacy, is nothing
like throwing up. nope, neither is it
like a shitstorm of mispronounced words,
the compromising amount of pain i'm in
daily, the categorical way you denied
any guilt, or the words she said (just
to say). it's also nothing like the great
ideas that you paint in capital letters,
the warm blanket around your shoulders,
the sand on the beach, or twisting-tearing-
breaking of ligaments-tendons-bones.

diplomacy is more like a strawberry milkshake,
or a talltall tree. more like a cast covered
in writing, a song that makes you feel amazing,
or a "so long" that doesn't last that long.

today, i was going to start the ABC's of
why i don't mind life, but i realized:
i am way too sober for this.