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| Saturday, December 29th, 2007 | | 1:03 am |
i'm floating down river in a canoe, looking for where you have camped out on the banks, looking for the house you hold on the shore. it's 1936 again, still i mean, it's actually some other time -- look it doesn't matter. what happened was this: i lived in another state to get away for awhile; two or three weeks after my arrival you asked me to come home in a letter and i responded no, actually meaning yes, yes i will yes and so the universe heard what i had said under my breath. in the other state i had a job which i quit because i smelled bad for loving you. also i was sick of wearing shoes and had been lying to myself again, laying with someone else (who isn't you) always get me into trouble, but not the same kind you get me into. so i came home but it wasn't home anymore. what i mean is: it wasn't you. in the canoe i have a little food and space enough for you. if you want you can come with me, if you don't want then i'll go with you and if you don't want that (which is what i am planning for) then i can wait in the river, i can wait forever in the river: when you don't love me water will. | | Monday, March 20th, 2006 | | 9:27 pm |
En pleno vendaval
social organization public relations gasoline the death grip from the desk something to fear, the elements threaten but you won’t win an industrial nation golden finger on the pulse of the American restraint gestures of unbecoming power. would the turbines maintain as the lungs filled with an explosion, with no visible blood leftovers? | | Sunday, February 26th, 2006 | | 3:30 pm |
| | Sunday, January 8th, 2006 | | 1:36 pm |
"defectiveness":(an amusing summery so that you don’t have to read the events of the past 13 hours)
desert island, don't you need somebody to love? i own no ideas. oh how i wish we could stay, just stay for a little while. but unless you clarify your "perspective" i will never be able to "focus" on it... I am not your perspective I am my perspective and i must send positive signals, right? ok! i love you so well sad internet! and its divisible and relatively uncollected human connectiveness! They broke their backs lifting it to heaven! and so i beg you to look at this human child: let's get him to the SURFACE! by stating that I am EQUAL to him and he is EQUAL to me. I need nothing more than to be happy. I am HAPPPY&HAPPY=ELECTRIC. YOUR MEEK education will never FREE MY ELECTRICITY with its pathetic pedagogy. GET me to SAFETY... GET me to visibility... oh how my heart beats!!! i didn't even think i could talk when i saw you! You're so beautiful. So Special. So Cherished. Please rest your burnt fingers. Nourish Yourself. That Vessel. Sweet. Be. Sweetly. Simply. Be. You are the one. You don't know how lucky you are to be You. You, They and We Are Inextricably Intertwined. Fumbling at the locks of the doors they've created for themselves you must begin to realize that you're going nowhere, fast. you must say to yourself “I will accept the clarity and close my hardness to softness,” and thru callous work you will grow soft and when men on the chess board get up and tell you where to go you must say “18 B--B5; K--Q6 (THERE'S NO HAMLET HERE); 19 K--B5; KXP; 20 K--K4; K--Kt6; 21 K--Q5; P--B6” and feed yr head -- which means read some books!!!! "That sign in the flower shop window, it makes me happy. It says 'we'll be back in the spring time!’ sort of like the flowers are saying that exactly -- those words -- just to you. 'We'll be back in the spring time, after the cold dead winter, don't you worry. We always come back. We're never ending. We're constant....’
Wait, actually, that makes me really sad for some reason."--and, oh Scott Lutz I will love you in April, I will love you in Germany and in the western night of our San Diego escape from mediocrity. I will love you stonedandcrazy, I will love you even though I hate your face and those freckles in circular array on your cheek -- brown&melon dots of pigment connected to make belts of a walrus wading in the tire pile that was the outer side of 2012, even though it never really was. but especially because in the dark, on your final night in pennsylvania -- tears running down and round yr breast -- you asked the meaning of eschaton&precipice del corazón and i told you that i did not know, and the little old man of all the means -- the one who served the invitations to a road of light -- who held the belief in every coat she took from his shoulder -- who kept us from shouting -- who went to the trouble (like every other depot) of finding all of the flowers before you came across them -- who went from a deep meditation in the Andes of Chile to your bedside in Heidelberg Heights (a suburb of Melbourne, Victoria, Australia) -- who poured lotions on the top of your head as you realized the importance of mirros and said that you had figured it out at long last, and he watched as you beat your only head into the only wall you could find -- who sat with you while you bled against the only wall -- who put pressure on your wounds to keep you from bleeding heavily -- who said that you must go to the place where everyone is given blankets and sunday choices, and who when given such choices insisted that they were useless and instead went to the scribes to ask them to write the figure that a poem makes -- who was disappointed by the inappropriate shapes that the scribes drew with their words -- who didn’t want to work and would then clean glasses for sticks and stones that never broke anyone's bones; that never understood the room with the sewing machine which healed injuries he could never inflict -- who, while there was plenty to eat, would starve every fourth month to remember the veterans of his civil war, which had lasted all of fifty years and had led to nothing but the transformation of real history to the history of the textbooks, which told his story as if it was their own, leaving out the important details (the complex history behind the politics that led to the decisions --the absolute need to-- go to war with the republic) for dates to be memorized and repeated during standardized tests -- who lived ninety-six years, seeing his father, mother, brothers, and sisters pass into the oblivion of nostalgia -- who also disappeared into the oblivion of nostalgia --who was found dead underneath a tree by the shed with water pouring from his wrist in a languid fashion; exercising a rhythmic drip-drop during the dawn of the sun. Wrists from which a thread of chlorophyll left hanging crumbs of flowers that were always found in the oval office -- a place where all enters through a tiny hole but only escapes in the inked word of man -- the same man who follows you in your dreams as a symbol for the heart’s wish for something far from the faculties of a supreme simplicity in the feelings of the heart, and an undeniable need to change the world, which could never be repressed and was always so strong that he would be forced to crush this paragraph if it did not stop right here. | | Monday, November 21st, 2005 | | 3:44 pm |
i refuse to write without my favourite fishbowl, the idea of doing otherwise puts me on the spot and i do not like that. being in that spot. | | Friday, October 7th, 2005 | | 5:24 pm |
the pressure to react could be too intense if one didn’t remember to forget about it. a reminder of Einstein's last words was sometimes all it would take in order to regain the stability required in day to day situations. the air seemed thick with the longing to escape smothering everything else, but to escape was to run away, and to turn a cold shoulder to the present couldn’t be tolerated any longer. one had to take part in one’s own life, there was nothing else to be done. the pressure was a one inch layer of membrane laying outside the skin. the membrane could only be disintegrated if one were to leave their own skin. when touched, it alarmed but without a sound. as if you were staring at a bell ringing but could not hear the ring. and it was always behind you. | | Monday, September 19th, 2005 | | 12:39 pm |
kind red kindred it is necessary to purify the soul perhaps even twice a day pour the water on it blow the circuit out sizzle wires important to see how dead you can be someday | | Friday, September 16th, 2005 | | 2:35 am |
as a car speeds
it’s just recognizing the reflection of the street sensation in the glass front door a leaf on fire like a star falls back and forth slowly as my heart beating i must be the grey cat who has been standing at the soft thud behind the ears. | | Wednesday, July 20th, 2005 | | 4:03 pm |
a level mind within the coming months to prove them wrong start walking across knowing Kinds of properties with manifestos degrading what once was Archetypes of wisdom printed on every corner, ever single word during the day is a message from the great beyond step forward willing to forget forging your way there are cracks to fall into at every turn permitted. the lazy child yogi a tree towards the edge of perception the leaf storm when i loved a boy left him so he could leave me later the comedy of life the great funny embarrassment of telling the truth the same we carry is the shame we hold until we let go portals of light and stones what music is to the whole of the mind we make fair trades and remember this in the morning let sink around to prove that we can see from the holydome what it is to be wholly sane | | Tuesday, June 7th, 2005 | | 6:27 pm |
just let it buy and sell every 100 years in a cycle to get your children tired&bored with themselves maybe its in the houses maybe its the family clickingfingerswho come like lambs to the slaughter free men supporting the queen their heads corn to yield. nobody is capable of becoming the key turning. everybody wants everything darker than before. | | Sunday, April 11th, 2004 | | 4:22 am |
i'm stepping off the bus and two girls are talking, their voices are going back and forth like the dull sound of a tennis ball bouncing off the ground maybe meeting a racket and causing a ruckus over the guy who got out of bed this morning and broke his wrist on purpose. a guy got out of bed this morning and broke his wrist on purpose. another step and i'm thinking about the woman who wore a blue summer dress everyday of the year, who sat inside watching old television reruns all day and night, who used to eat entire cakes by herself just because she could, and how the sweat would pour from holes in her skin during her yearly exercise with her dog freckles; a long walk in the heat of the shoulder of route four-thirteen, holding tight to the leash as freckles led the way to the vet so that she could hold him still as they gave him his shots. they put him to sleep after she died. | | Sunday, December 7th, 2003 | | 9:23 pm |
The sea-side pike. The salt-water splashing against the rocks, waves even. Birds in the air, fish in the water, and my toes on the cold of the pier. His next to mine. Next to me. He’s standing there. We’re standing there. The wind penetrating layers of t-shirts and those corduroy pants. I can’t remember which one of us had come up with the idea to do this now in December. I can’t remember which one of us had driven all the way chatting with the other. Which one of us had put the Belle & Sebastian album into the player, which one of us had sung out of key about fighting in a war. A war, oh the laughs, the laughing of it all. I couldn’t remember which one of us had said that we’d best take off at least our shoes and socks. I still can’t remember. "Not exactly the polar bears, is it Trevor?" tossing the mop of hair on his head out of his eyes. The wind blows it back, almost instantly. "No, not exactly," I say with a smile. "Shall we jump then?" "I don’t know. Well, I do," I say, "but it’s going to be cold down there Marcus." "In there," he said with a smile. We stood there for awhile, occasionally looking down into the water swearing that there were ice cubes somewhere in the dark. Watching the birds heading towards the horizon, the rocks out there must be home to schools of fish. Hands touching so often, I’m still always surprised when his touch sends the shivers around my body, hairs standing on end, heart beating so fast. Like nobody has touched me before. Like I’ve never been touched before. "I remember coming here with my father when I was little," he says staring at the birds and then looking back at me. Hair in eyes, that dark mop of hair and that warm smile, "we’d go fishing off this pier sometimes. Never caught anything, but the stories he’d tell me here Trevor. Nobody told stories like him." "What sorts of stories would he tell you?" We sat down on the pier. We’ve been here for an hour now, every so often one of us pretends to have the nerve to jump into the water below. One of us will stand up and say ‘let’s jump then!’ but we just stand there and laugh for awhile and sit back down. "Stories about an old world. Something he made up in his head, I suppose," said Marcus biting his lip. "I can’t remember any of them now, I just remember sitting here with the fishing rod in the water while he talked. Running my fingers on the fishing line sometimes -- it was so transparent -- I remember that I was making sure it was still there. All the while paying attention to his voice, his words flowed out of his mouth and rolled across everything on the beach so that nothing ignored them. I remember thinking once ‘I bet the fish aren’t biting at the bait because they’re too busy listening to his story,’ and when I told him that he just laughed," he trailed off just as a cloud was sideling under the sun. It becomes so dark, so suddenly. Everything on the beach notices the change just as the cloud sweeps past and light comes back, pouring, must be the eye of God. "He laughed for days about that one, but I never really understood what was so funny about it." "There’s a time in everyone’s life when they think that their parent’s words have the command of everything, and everyone." "Yea, but what’s so funny about that?" "Just your vocalization of it, I guess. He’d probably never stopped to think about it that way." A gust of wind blew across the pier, the waves crashing. The tide would be going out soon, so soon. "My feet are cold." "The tides changing." "We’d best do this now then, right?" standing up and he follows my lead. To the edge of the pier again, frozen toes. Crashing waves. The birds, the rocks out there in the horizon. Schools of fish, mother’s and father’s and the clouds that cover the sun for seconds at a time. All of it and us, there, a big breath, hands held, and jump. Jump. | | Saturday, November 15th, 2003 | | 4:54 pm |
there are a million saturday things to be done and a million saturday people to see. | | Wednesday, October 29th, 2003 | | 4:38 am |
I'm lost in your busy breaths watching you sleep next to all we've learnt. Like taking each other seriously and having regrets when talking by candle light absorbed in alcohol absorbed with the feeling of it all. I shook you accidentally with a kiss on the cheek and you mumbled words in your sleep. I thought about when we were kids; if I had met you then nothing could've separated us. Suburban lots to get lost in, think of how sweet it could have been. Silly laughs with chemistry sets; smoking stolen cigarettes. Though our fathers would hate it we'd kiss behind curtains and dress up in costumes for fun. We'd build a fort on the top of our street and sit and talk about nothing for weeks. Now watching you sleep I'll lay my chest against your back and get lost in your breath, forgetting the children that we never were and holding you for real this time. and i'll run my fingers through your beautiful hair and whisper in your ear everything that i know. | | Thursday, October 16th, 2003 | | 9:52 pm |
I found this old agenda book from the tenth grade tonight while tarring through old books looking for my collection of religious pamphlets. I needed a reminder, something to tell me about the wonderful life God wants for me. Something like that. The pages of the agenda book are soft. I imagine that this is what happens to paper after being beaten up every day for nine months and then forgotten, forever. For some reason I have the word "mediocrity" scratched into the back of it with black pen. One of those pilot ones. Sharp points that bleed. | | Sunday, September 28th, 2003 | | 5:19 am |
Formula racing isn't where it's at.
I know about this because the other
day my best friend and I were sitting in
a diner watching it. It's really the only
thing I can prove.
And here I am now,
in the middle of all of this
commotion and beauty,
me, of all people, imagine
it. recording it.
i suppose that doesn't make much sense,
it's nothing i can really prove,
nothing I really know about.
but then again, how much influence does that hold over the confused outline of the horizon? we're all heading towards something unknown and yet, completely exciting. the beauty of all of it. imagine. | | Monday, September 15th, 2003 | | 8:58 pm |
"I keep having this dream
-- each time it's a little different --
but basically it's the same dream
where Marcus and I are driving in
a car faster than the speed of light.
You should see how time seems to
seep by the driver side door
almost as if it was liquid;
images become flashes of light
sometimes in slow motion
sometimes really fast.
And the curves of the road
seem to bend as I turn the wheel
instead of the wheel turning
when the road curves
and it's almost as if I'm on
the outside looking in on the two of us.
It was three months ago
when they hit the cat
killing it instantly.
Late at night
I know Marcus is having
nightmares about turbulent
car rides being pushed against
the back of his seat
a towel underneath
a bag to his side (incase
he gets sick).
In my dream we're pushing
the laws of nature wondering
where it is that we're really going.
I still haven't decided yet." | | Sunday, September 14th, 2003 | | 4:26 am |
hands pass gently. press yourself against me, my delusional lover running with your fever, looking for a bath tub with a soap on a string. | | Saturday, August 30th, 2003 | | 11:18 pm |
eight
Dylan, Do note that my name is carved into your maple tree. Yours truly, Oedipus | | 11:16 pm |
six ((
dylan, please stop masturbating on paper. (heart) Trevor p.s. mom loves me more. |
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