I have no experience in:
bird watching, but I've talked
to a lot of them. It's one of my
weirder quirks. During the day
on the street, smoking a smoke.
Seeing little grey ones and those
with the white and blue specks.
They come up to me to give
a closer look. I just say hello
and let them fly off.
I hope that their day is good,
just as I hope that this winter
will soon be done.
I have no experience with plants,
except the aforementioned
cigarettes. But those, dried as
my humor.
And this jade
that the girl I'm gonna spend
a couple six decades with
gave me for Christmas. I give
it one cup of water a week and it seems
pretty happy. It doesn't give me a lot of
flack.
I know a little about a lot, but there
are thing's I know nothing about.
Besides the obvious. I cannot wait
to continue on my quest, to learn
and experience as much as I can.
I think that's my thing,
that's what I'm working on.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Fire When Ready.
We can stay here,
if you want.
or
attempt to run straight ahead.
It's up to you.
I can go into detail
about all of the awful
things that I've done in the
past.
I could even talk about
the positive things I've attempted at
and succeeded...
It would mean anything.
It isn't me.
I will stand here
with who I know
I am,
and where I want to be.
I won't hide, or obscure my
anything. I've deflected from it
long, long enough.
Ask all of your questions.
It's all back here, waiting.
I know there's no undoing
it either.
It is in my past, I try
my best
to be better off
today
and the day after that.
Ask all that you want,
fire when ready.
if you want.
or
attempt to run straight ahead.
It's up to you.
I can go into detail
about all of the awful
things that I've done in the
past.
I could even talk about
the positive things I've attempted at
and succeeded...
It would mean anything.
It isn't me.
I will stand here
with who I know
I am,
and where I want to be.
I won't hide, or obscure my
anything. I've deflected from it
long, long enough.
Ask all of your questions.
It's all back here, waiting.
I know there's no undoing
it either.
It is in my past, I try
my best
to be better off
today
and the day after that.
Ask all that you want,
fire when ready.
My friends, my love, and my prospects.
I am here to drop a quarter
into a juke box, and play a song.
It's relatively short, and in waltz time.
It speaks of charity, and of longing.
It's on a cd I just mailed to you,
you should have it soon.
My friends, my love, and my prospects.
These are the things I have to offer.
These are the things I will beg to differ.
I want the touch of your olive skin against mine,
I want to hear your laugh.
Good night, my sweet.
good night.
into a juke box, and play a song.
It's relatively short, and in waltz time.
It speaks of charity, and of longing.
It's on a cd I just mailed to you,
you should have it soon.
My friends, my love, and my prospects.
These are the things I have to offer.
These are the things I will beg to differ.
I want the touch of your olive skin against mine,
I want to hear your laugh.
Good night, my sweet.
good night.
Tempted to pack
If I could explain how much
I love you, you'd be scared.
I am, after all.
I do not understand why,
or even how, but I do.
I'm tempted to pack my
belongings into a backpack
and move on down, and share
your bed with your cats
with all of their robo-meowings
happening while we try to sleep.
And take trips away, to the left
hand'ed coast, to vist friends
and take naps. Then come home,
just so we could be reunited.
Oh, geeze. I need for this to happen.
I will make it happen, my love.
I love you, you'd be scared.
I am, after all.
I do not understand why,
or even how, but I do.
I'm tempted to pack my
belongings into a backpack
and move on down, and share
your bed with your cats
with all of their robo-meowings
happening while we try to sleep.
And take trips away, to the left
hand'ed coast, to vist friends
and take naps. Then come home,
just so we could be reunited.
Oh, geeze. I need for this to happen.
I will make it happen, my love.
I want more.
I have a confession to make,
I've felt like crap this last week.
Like all of my gumption is gone,
like a selfish little child.
I woke up this morning to realize
these things, and I accepted my
own apology. It wasn't even that
hard to do.
It's easy to lose course,
to get bowled over by
our own discourse.
I need to learn how to take my own
pulse, and drop the overwhelm'd nature
that pulses out in random droplets.
This is a realization,
this is another day.
This is me getting to sleep early
and waking up on time.
This is to me saving my cash,
and covering my own ass.
This is me giving you all of my love,
this is me wanting more.
I'm contented, but not obtained.
I want more.
I've felt like crap this last week.
Like all of my gumption is gone,
like a selfish little child.
I woke up this morning to realize
these things, and I accepted my
own apology. It wasn't even that
hard to do.
It's easy to lose course,
to get bowled over by
our own discourse.
I need to learn how to take my own
pulse, and drop the overwhelm'd nature
that pulses out in random droplets.
This is a realization,
this is another day.
This is me getting to sleep early
and waking up on time.
This is to me saving my cash,
and covering my own ass.
This is me giving you all of my love,
this is me wanting more.
I'm contented, but not obtained.
I want more.
1993.
I've dropped fifteen pounds,
and I am always spelling out my numbers.
Thirty Four. Thirty. Twenty Nine.
Ninety Three.... 1993, I was sixteen and stupid.
I should've told you how I felt,
and what was up.
But, I was a kid, and I'm now
soo glad that I didn't.
In all sorts of fucked up ways, I'm glad it
took me this long to get sober. I'm glad
that you noticed. I'm stunned to be here,
to feel this way. I'm glad you feel the same.
But what the hell, ya know?
It's an honest chance,
We left it to fate. I hate that
word. Fate.
I prefer faith. I'd also perfer us to live in the
same county,
lest the same state.
Or in the same bed,
on a Sunday morning with your panthers for cats
mulling around at our feet. I prefer your smile,
and holding your gimp'd hand on cold nights, until
it turns from its white sheen back to its
normal olived hue.
I'm glad I can again, and I am not going to
let it go.
So have a week that fills you with reward,
I'll have one that is equaled with hope. And
We'll meet together again next weekend.
I got a book for ya that I think you'll like.
It's called
"How I Learned to Stop Farting in Church, and Other Such Reveries"
It's a first draft. the author is an ass hat. And a bad ass'd leather
jacket.
It tells the story of a boy who is happy where he is,
but can not wait for the future.
I'm writing it for you, and in the foward
I'll talk about how you still have
a restraining order against my funny,
how's it been stuck at the Federal
Pen, doing seven to nine. But it writes you letters,
all scrawled about
with Jokes in a wide range, from burglars
to hand gernades. And boobs.
Hrmm, nevermind. It sounds better in person.
I'll just tell you about it then.
I soo can't fucking wait to see you
again.
and I am always spelling out my numbers.
Thirty Four. Thirty. Twenty Nine.
Ninety Three.... 1993, I was sixteen and stupid.
I should've told you how I felt,
and what was up.
But, I was a kid, and I'm now
soo glad that I didn't.
In all sorts of fucked up ways, I'm glad it
took me this long to get sober. I'm glad
that you noticed. I'm stunned to be here,
to feel this way. I'm glad you feel the same.
But what the hell, ya know?
It's an honest chance,
We left it to fate. I hate that
word. Fate.
I prefer faith. I'd also perfer us to live in the
same county,
lest the same state.
Or in the same bed,
on a Sunday morning with your panthers for cats
mulling around at our feet. I prefer your smile,
and holding your gimp'd hand on cold nights, until
it turns from its white sheen back to its
normal olived hue.
I'm glad I can again, and I am not going to
let it go.
So have a week that fills you with reward,
I'll have one that is equaled with hope. And
We'll meet together again next weekend.
I got a book for ya that I think you'll like.
It's called
"How I Learned to Stop Farting in Church, and Other Such Reveries"
It's a first draft. the author is an ass hat. And a bad ass'd leather
jacket.
It tells the story of a boy who is happy where he is,
but can not wait for the future.
I'm writing it for you, and in the foward
I'll talk about how you still have
a restraining order against my funny,
how's it been stuck at the Federal
Pen, doing seven to nine. But it writes you letters,
all scrawled about
with Jokes in a wide range, from burglars
to hand gernades. And boobs.
Hrmm, nevermind. It sounds better in person.
I'll just tell you about it then.
I soo can't fucking wait to see you
again.
When we’ll be close.
I spend time archiving things,
from people that I love.
Also unpaid bills that piled up for years,
that just recently I've just started to pay.
The interest is killing me, but I'm thrifty
with my abilities.
I have removed and rescinded offers
from others before. From friends to lovers.
It just didn't "feel" right. It's hard to explaiin.
The ones still around, they are the good shit.
And for you, the offer has never left here.
For you, I have tractor trailers full of patience,
and a kiss for your neck.
What ever may need to be,
What ever may happen,
I'm glad you said more than just, "hello!"
and I am glad to be shooting from the hip.
We'll talk from 9:30 to 11:00, Monday thru Friday,
and I'll continue to look over for you in my sleep.
Just to sheepishly say "hi" to the mound of blanket,
and to dream about two weekends from now.
When we'll be close.
from people that I love.
Also unpaid bills that piled up for years,
that just recently I've just started to pay.
The interest is killing me, but I'm thrifty
with my abilities.
I have removed and rescinded offers
from others before. From friends to lovers.
It just didn't "feel" right. It's hard to explaiin.
The ones still around, they are the good shit.
And for you, the offer has never left here.
For you, I have tractor trailers full of patience,
and a kiss for your neck.
What ever may need to be,
What ever may happen,
I'm glad you said more than just, "hello!"
and I am glad to be shooting from the hip.
We'll talk from 9:30 to 11:00, Monday thru Friday,
and I'll continue to look over for you in my sleep.
Just to sheepishly say "hi" to the mound of blanket,
and to dream about two weekends from now.
When we'll be close.
start it all again.
On an early night like tonight,
with the stress of the day remarked
away, like a check engine light flashed
from on to off, I find my eyes fixed
to this picture of you.
It's not printed, it's not material.
I'm focused from head to foot
on our walk down to Fenway
or that little park twenty minutes
after I first saw you again.
How you averted your eyes
and soaked in the surroundings.
From minute five to minute fifteen.
Just to sit on that bench.
How later that night I reverted my
thoughts about the future - and the past -
to focus on the here and now,
your back with its circular tattoo
finding me disoriented and intrigued.
To think about all of the "talks" that
we've had, you and I, leading us here.
And how absolutely surreal it all
really is...
the best 49 hours I've had in a long long
long time.
Come here, so I can grapple with your
shirt and remark about your neck.
And slide my hand to your left hip...
just to trace out our focal view,
and feel as whole as I did six nights ago.
We will go for a walk, and hunt out a place to read.
Get some food and talk about the good and the miserable.
Go home, to my place, and start all again.
with the stress of the day remarked
away, like a check engine light flashed
from on to off, I find my eyes fixed
to this picture of you.
It's not printed, it's not material.
I'm focused from head to foot
on our walk down to Fenway
or that little park twenty minutes
after I first saw you again.
How you averted your eyes
and soaked in the surroundings.
From minute five to minute fifteen.
Just to sit on that bench.
How later that night I reverted my
thoughts about the future - and the past -
to focus on the here and now,
your back with its circular tattoo
finding me disoriented and intrigued.
To think about all of the "talks" that
we've had, you and I, leading us here.
And how absolutely surreal it all
really is...
the best 49 hours I've had in a long long
long time.
Come here, so I can grapple with your
shirt and remark about your neck.
And slide my hand to your left hip...
just to trace out our focal view,
and feel as whole as I did six nights ago.
We will go for a walk, and hunt out a place to read.
Get some food and talk about the good and the miserable.
Go home, to my place, and start all again.
I thought about a lot of things tonight, and
about seventy five seconds of that time,
you were the furthest thing from my mind.
Far fucking away. On a train somewhere,
Probably. I sat and watched you by the
tracks before
You left.
Was gonna to come down and say goodbye.
Again.
But I thought that I should let you alone.
while you're on the phone.
I think continuously about many things,
circling subjects that are far reaching to
many different chasms.
Of time to give;
And the space you oh so definitely need.
But, well, that's a different kind of issue.
We have a lot of space. And a few
One hundred and eighty days of time.
But I wont be kicked about for seven
to ten business days, also, I have some mail
for you. It's a letter and a kick ass mix cd.
I'm just dyin to send it.
Gonna sit on it for a while, though.
Want it to have the right timing,
With yellow'd paper to be crinkled just right.
And the track listing to explain why and how each song fits.
The next time I see you,
hold my arm tight, while we
walk down the street, and
as soon as there's a quick,
quiet second, the lobe of you petite
ear is mine, lady.
You, me. Us.
It's one of those days for smoking a lot.
I'm slightly nervous.
You see, I've spent a lot of time here,
most of my life. I feel ready to change
again. Ready to blow everything up.
But this time, it's not much of a bad thing.
My timing's not off, I have a direction.
So instead of blowing up my world.
I'm setting off small blast caps,
looking at the map for a new place.
I'm cutting down trees for wood.
It's time for a new house.
A house for you and me.
A house for us.
The only questions remaining are;
Where?
and
When.
I'm slightly nervous.
You see, I've spent a lot of time here,
most of my life. I feel ready to change
again. Ready to blow everything up.
But this time, it's not much of a bad thing.
My timing's not off, I have a direction.
So instead of blowing up my world.
I'm setting off small blast caps,
looking at the map for a new place.
I'm cutting down trees for wood.
It's time for a new house.
A house for you and me.
A house for us.
The only questions remaining are;
Where?
and
When.
Just let me know, ok?
I feel fall roll around,
and in it a sea of change.
To grab a salt licked grip
onto this ship. Not too fast
not too slow. It's all about timing,
is it not?
What do you want? I can be there
in the switch of a fickle cats tail.
Or, hold off and give you time.
If you need it, I have it.
All I know, it will be hard
when I see you again,
to not grab my hold of
your hips, and to not kiss
you on the mouth.
Just let me know, ok?
and in it a sea of change.
To grab a salt licked grip
onto this ship. Not too fast
not too slow. It's all about timing,
is it not?
What do you want? I can be there
in the switch of a fickle cats tail.
Or, hold off and give you time.
If you need it, I have it.
All I know, it will be hard
when I see you again,
to not grab my hold of
your hips, and to not kiss
you on the mouth.
Just let me know, ok?
a tiny piece of rope.
I lean back against the porch,
with one leg stuck behind me
sure footed, against the wall.
I look up to the left. To
watch the lightning off out
in the distance and feel then
creak to the right to the
broadening
wind against my neck.
I inhale, and exhale through
my nose. And throw my hands
into my pockets. And take them out
again. I write:
"OK. Come here. Break up
with your boyfriend. Call into work"
I'm sticking out my tounge pretty far.
Two hundred and ninety eight miles,
to be exact. There's a boom box
for ya. I know it's early for that kind
of behaviour. And, I know that I've
over analyzed this to hell and back.
But I'd like to see you, alone for a second.
I'll get a hall pass, you come out in five minutes.
I'll prop you up against the bathroom sink
and maul your body like a boy thats been trapped
in a well. Forced to drink stagnate water just
to stay alive.
Just give me a tiny piece of rope.
My dear.
I will take care of the rest.
with one leg stuck behind me
sure footed, against the wall.
I look up to the left. To
watch the lightning off out
in the distance and feel then
creak to the right to the
broadening
wind against my neck.
I inhale, and exhale through
my nose. And throw my hands
into my pockets. And take them out
again. I write:
"OK. Come here. Break up
with your boyfriend. Call into work"
I'm sticking out my tounge pretty far.
Two hundred and ninety eight miles,
to be exact. There's a boom box
for ya. I know it's early for that kind
of behaviour. And, I know that I've
over analyzed this to hell and back.
But I'd like to see you, alone for a second.
I'll get a hall pass, you come out in five minutes.
I'll prop you up against the bathroom sink
and maul your body like a boy thats been trapped
in a well. Forced to drink stagnate water just
to stay alive.
Just give me a tiny piece of rope.
My dear.
I will take care of the rest.
The small of your back
You have been around, here
you know who I am
and what I do.
You have been of your own person,
with unfaltering opinions,
and independence I have always
coveted for myself. Even though
we've all seen dangerous ideas
like these before
and danced around another's flame.
Oh how we supple up to it, in search for light.
We search it for heat.
Have you ever though,
or even, realized what an
effect you have on me?
To how ridiculously stupid
I start to act...
Who knows what will happen,
and I thank you for your call.
Now I am all put together, fancied full,
and put on by your curiosity
I'll scheme my hand to the small of your back,
we'll dance close, as tonight is new,
no?
Just for tonight, my dear.
I am
Just getting started.
you know who I am
and what I do.
You have been of your own person,
with unfaltering opinions,
and independence I have always
coveted for myself. Even though
we've all seen dangerous ideas
like these before
and danced around another's flame.
Oh how we supple up to it, in search for light.
We search it for heat.
Have you ever though,
or even, realized what an
effect you have on me?
To how ridiculously stupid
I start to act...
Who knows what will happen,
and I thank you for your call.
Now I am all put together, fancied full,
and put on by your curiosity
I'll scheme my hand to the small of your back,
we'll dance close, as tonight is new,
no?
Just for tonight, my dear.
I am
Just getting started.
The jacket.
I have your jacket,
It's hanging by the hook on my closet.
Sometimes, I think about just bringing it downstairs.
Knocking on your door and saying, "Hey, I have your jacket!"
But I let it hang there. Here. Upstairs.
Just waiting for that day that I need that excuse.
and hoping that it never actually comes.
For you my friend, will always be.
Remind me to tell you of my ex that just
got married.
I wanted to be upset, I wasn't. None of the internal stewing.
No worries of lost love.
I just hope she's gonna follow what makes her
happy. What a sucker.
Ha!
So, your jacket. It's sits near a small box that contains
postcards and letters. It's pink, Niki gave it to me.
I actually believe that it's the only pink thing I own.
It sits near my copy of "The Stranger" that Amy from Quakertown, PA
gifted to me one night at Al's.
and in non-hastily inscribed care, wrote:
"To Sean; Hope you enjoy the read!"
Just one random night, we talked randomly about Camus. Thanks Amy.
Let's go get a drink this week. I'll buy the first round.
ly,
-me
It's hanging by the hook on my closet.
Sometimes, I think about just bringing it downstairs.
Knocking on your door and saying, "Hey, I have your jacket!"
But I let it hang there. Here. Upstairs.
Just waiting for that day that I need that excuse.
and hoping that it never actually comes.
For you my friend, will always be.
Remind me to tell you of my ex that just
got married.
I wanted to be upset, I wasn't. None of the internal stewing.
No worries of lost love.
I just hope she's gonna follow what makes her
happy. What a sucker.
Ha!
So, your jacket. It's sits near a small box that contains
postcards and letters. It's pink, Niki gave it to me.
I actually believe that it's the only pink thing I own.
It sits near my copy of "The Stranger" that Amy from Quakertown, PA
gifted to me one night at Al's.
and in non-hastily inscribed care, wrote:
"To Sean; Hope you enjoy the read!"
Just one random night, we talked randomly about Camus. Thanks Amy.
Let's go get a drink this week. I'll buy the first round.
ly,
-me
an open letter to an old love.
I can't write you. and
wanted to say hi tonight.
Also to go sit outside.
It'd be a beautiful night to drive over near the Atlantic.
And grab good coffee and smoke some smokes.
I know you hate them, as do I. I'm just about ready to kick.
It's about the only time I still like to smoke,
the night.
Like tonight.
With an outdoor table at a good bar
and a good drink.
Your hand on my arm as we walk
down the street. It doesn't matter if it is here
or in that little park off Winthrop and JFK.
oh yes, I remember that...
And I won't forget! Each and every time I go back there,
I sit on that bench. It breathes me full. The thought
of you in continuation, of doing what you want for who
you can.
I've spent a lot of time publicly slurring my own demons around.
On bar stools and behind wheels. A shrink would've been
cheaper in the long run. But, I'm glad for the memories.
Now I just spend a lot of time, one day at a time.
In preperation for tomorrow. And enjoying tonight.
I've decided to go out and lie on the front lawn.
It's starry out and kinda cold, I should grab a jacket.
I hope you do the same.
Good luck, and sleep well.
-sean
wanted to say hi tonight.
Also to go sit outside.
It'd be a beautiful night to drive over near the Atlantic.
And grab good coffee and smoke some smokes.
I know you hate them, as do I. I'm just about ready to kick.
It's about the only time I still like to smoke,
the night.
Like tonight.
With an outdoor table at a good bar
and a good drink.
Your hand on my arm as we walk
down the street. It doesn't matter if it is here
or in that little park off Winthrop and JFK.
oh yes, I remember that...
And I won't forget! Each and every time I go back there,
I sit on that bench. It breathes me full. The thought
of you in continuation, of doing what you want for who
you can.
I've spent a lot of time publicly slurring my own demons around.
On bar stools and behind wheels. A shrink would've been
cheaper in the long run. But, I'm glad for the memories.
Now I just spend a lot of time, one day at a time.
In preperation for tomorrow. And enjoying tonight.
I've decided to go out and lie on the front lawn.
It's starry out and kinda cold, I should grab a jacket.
I hope you do the same.
Good luck, and sleep well.
-sean
fifteen lines past sobriety.
I'm fine if you come into town tonight,
and spend the night with the fine folks downstairs.
I'm fine if I see you tomorrow night,
cause, you see dear, I gave up the drink.
And It's easier to fight off the lonely when
I'm straight.
I remember the good times,
almost as much as the brat.
You are fine, no?
You got what you wanted?
I'm still out here struggling with myself
and my own insepid ways,
and I'm out here tryin.
But I do hope that you are fine.
Fine, just fine.
and spend the night with the fine folks downstairs.
I'm fine if I see you tomorrow night,
cause, you see dear, I gave up the drink.
And It's easier to fight off the lonely when
I'm straight.
I remember the good times,
almost as much as the brat.
You are fine, no?
You got what you wanted?
I'm still out here struggling with myself
and my own insepid ways,
and I'm out here tryin.
But I do hope that you are fine.
Fine, just fine.
The virtue of an open evening.
maybe I'm dense,
or, as solid as a rock.
perhaps I am fickle-
it really depends on the
situation.
The Situation.
Which, I am able. At any moment!
Like an off kilter German equals
new fitting snow shoes. It's 1939
all over again...
So my friends, my confidants,
I stand still this Thursday and
go for a walk to buy some smokes
with my half price coupon, then attempt
to find a place to watch the sun set.
good evening.
or, as solid as a rock.
perhaps I am fickle-
it really depends on the
situation.
The Situation.
Which, I am able. At any moment!
Like an off kilter German equals
new fitting snow shoes. It's 1939
all over again...
So my friends, my confidants,
I stand still this Thursday and
go for a walk to buy some smokes
with my half price coupon, then attempt
to find a place to watch the sun set.
good evening.
A slogan for everyday, a parting gift for failed measure
Just a feeling,
it passes quickly.
A certain scent,
my passing glance.
A stressed moment,
and a good friend.
We talk about our day,
we make plans for the
future.
Thats where I want to be,
Thats what I want.
To refuse this equated measure.
To hear the flight of birds.
and to feel sun on my sweater,
On a windy spring day.
So, each day at a time,
and I'll sit back and listen.
instead of screaming like a
spoiled child, forced to finish
their plate at grandmas. I do not
know anything, I am not all, I am left dumb.
I'll try to be open minded, and I'm here.
and here I'll be tomorrow.
Time. Listen. A finish. Not dumb. Here tomorrow.
A slogan for everyday, a parting gift for my failed measure.
A plan for tomorrow, much more than a promise.
it passes quickly.
A certain scent,
my passing glance.
A stressed moment,
and a good friend.
We talk about our day,
we make plans for the
future.
Thats where I want to be,
Thats what I want.
To refuse this equated measure.
To hear the flight of birds.
and to feel sun on my sweater,
On a windy spring day.
So, each day at a time,
and I'll sit back and listen.
instead of screaming like a
spoiled child, forced to finish
their plate at grandmas. I do not
know anything, I am not all, I am left dumb.
I'll try to be open minded, and I'm here.
and here I'll be tomorrow.
Time. Listen. A finish. Not dumb. Here tomorrow.
A slogan for everyday, a parting gift for my failed measure.
A plan for tomorrow, much more than a promise.
bullshit and credo, foaming at the mouth.
don't believe in a god,
believe in energy.
I think of all that surrounds,
and our inherent responsibility
to be who and what we are. Always.
and to leave the house of fear,
and ignore what we are scared to do
out of fear of retribution,
or responsibility.
It always as if nothing is immediately available,
if it is not in arms reach, it's not worth persuing.
And that to me, well, insane! Insane!!! that I could ever
even think that way, about things of past, non-possible futures.
bullshit and credo, foaming at the mouth.
and another drop of song,
another day of inconsistency.
but not again,
just for everyone,
and myself.
believe in energy.
I think of all that surrounds,
and our inherent responsibility
to be who and what we are. Always.
and to leave the house of fear,
and ignore what we are scared to do
out of fear of retribution,
or responsibility.
It always as if nothing is immediately available,
if it is not in arms reach, it's not worth persuing.
And that to me, well, insane! Insane!!! that I could ever
even think that way, about things of past, non-possible futures.
bullshit and credo, foaming at the mouth.
and another drop of song,
another day of inconsistency.
but not again,
just for everyone,
and myself.
where we are nothing and everything, all towards. All at the same time.
I sit here with nothing.
Just my own two hands
and a trial belief of who
I can be.
I think of the past, to just stare
so blankly,
at the present,
and towards the future
tense.
It makes me gather hope.
Hope for you, and hope for me.
Hope for waking, in the morning,
to work hard. Towards whom I want
to be. Cast in a giant basket, sown
from velvet and forgiveness.
Also, stop the exacerbation of what yesterday felt like.
Even if it wasn't so. Cause my vocal lack wasn't my
point.
I think of space.
I think of exaggeration,
and absolution.
It is what we make of it,
where we are nothing and
everything, all towards.
All at the same time.
It's not fair of me to not
let you know
how I am feeling,
as just if... It is used, or abused.
Or of my boundaries, for I don't
want the existence of them to sour
anything, for anyone that I love.
And I love it all.
Not as much as you,
my friend.
Just my own two hands
and a trial belief of who
I can be.
I think of the past, to just stare
so blankly,
at the present,
and towards the future
tense.
It makes me gather hope.
Hope for you, and hope for me.
Hope for waking, in the morning,
to work hard. Towards whom I want
to be. Cast in a giant basket, sown
from velvet and forgiveness.
Also, stop the exacerbation of what yesterday felt like.
Even if it wasn't so. Cause my vocal lack wasn't my
point.
I think of space.
I think of exaggeration,
and absolution.
It is what we make of it,
where we are nothing and
everything, all towards.
All at the same time.
It's not fair of me to not
let you know
how I am feeling,
as just if... It is used, or abused.
Or of my boundaries, for I don't
want the existence of them to sour
anything, for anyone that I love.
And I love it all.
Not as much as you,
my friend.
just for february 21st
I want to be a ribbon microphone, and want the smell of my pallmalls
to have a heart-aching, dead in the tracks, affect.
And as so, I want to be in Vegas, in nineteen hundred and fifty four.
To be worn by a charcoal'd grey suit, while we dance slow to Chet Baker.
With your breast affirmed to my chest, only.
I want your breath stained with Johnny Walker Blue with that sarcastic tongue of yours firmly entrenched in my cheek.
I want us to wake up, and get breakfast at that shitty little bakelite down by 7th avenue. You'll have grits.
Me, with both eggs sunny side up, not a lot of hash.
Not a lot of yolk.
But it's sixty five degrees there, it might as well have 90 percent humidity, and a grand ol' chance of me
kicking my own ass.
It's all the same, is it not?
to have a heart-aching, dead in the tracks, affect.
And as so, I want to be in Vegas, in nineteen hundred and fifty four.
To be worn by a charcoal'd grey suit, while we dance slow to Chet Baker.
With your breast affirmed to my chest, only.
I want your breath stained with Johnny Walker Blue with that sarcastic tongue of yours firmly entrenched in my cheek.
I want us to wake up, and get breakfast at that shitty little bakelite down by 7th avenue. You'll have grits.
Me, with both eggs sunny side up, not a lot of hash.
Not a lot of yolk.
But it's sixty five degrees there, it might as well have 90 percent humidity, and a grand ol' chance of me
kicking my own ass.
It's all the same, is it not?
Catma is to dogma, as a fickel cat is to a loyal dog.
and you know who you are,
you know the score.
I'm sorry to ever ask what you wanted to be.
and I'm sorry for never saying what I wanted.
And to you, my love,
no matter, know, no what.
It will always feel the same.
In twelve hours I'll somehow feel different,
then in fifteen, I'll feel the same.
You are a spell of capture,
you are a breath of beliefe,
and life can contain.
just as I will.
I hope all is well.
Cause fifteen minutes ago
I said that. For the hell of it.
But now,
well,
you know
you know the score.
I'm sorry to ever ask what you wanted to be.
and I'm sorry for never saying what I wanted.
And to you, my love,
no matter, know, no what.
It will always feel the same.
In twelve hours I'll somehow feel different,
then in fifteen, I'll feel the same.
You are a spell of capture,
you are a breath of beliefe,
and life can contain.
just as I will.
I hope all is well.
Cause fifteen minutes ago
I said that. For the hell of it.
But now,
well,
you know
for Jenny, whomever she may be. to me.
I've written you, I never have wrote for you,
is it for the fact that we had some of the best
times I have ever had with anyone else?
I mean, `cept for Jill, but I was young,
and I've moved on since then.
I still miss our good times,
and despise our brattyness.
But I normally spend most of my time
writing about relations that were not meant to be.
I've tormented myself, and those close to me,
that still do love me. For they care duplicitously.
I do hope you are great, actually, amazing!
Sometimes, when I'm really honest with myself,
I can actualize my vision of us - the retired couple,
went through wrought and visceral animosity,
to reach what
we have, but, as much as I know that you can not
be fine with me,
I can not forse being happy with the mediocrity
that I've accessed your life to be.
But if I close my eyes, as I am doing right now,
I do miss you, and fall is not the same
without you.
I hope you are well, I hope you are amazing.
-Sean
is it for the fact that we had some of the best
times I have ever had with anyone else?
I mean, `cept for Jill, but I was young,
and I've moved on since then.
I still miss our good times,
and despise our brattyness.
But I normally spend most of my time
writing about relations that were not meant to be.
I've tormented myself, and those close to me,
that still do love me. For they care duplicitously.
I do hope you are great, actually, amazing!
Sometimes, when I'm really honest with myself,
I can actualize my vision of us - the retired couple,
went through wrought and visceral animosity,
to reach what
we have, but, as much as I know that you can not
be fine with me,
I can not forse being happy with the mediocrity
that I've accessed your life to be.
But if I close my eyes, as I am doing right now,
I do miss you, and fall is not the same
without you.
I hope you are well, I hope you are amazing.
-Sean
I'm starting to hear Aaron Copeland all around me, and cluster tones draw me in
I guess that in certain respects
I am not self evident.
That I try to shy away from the "I"
Not because the "we" is all that better.
But it shields "we" and creates a canvas.
That we all can drop a pollock'd smear to,
and it is random and chaotic,
but holds a sense of meaning to those
who need to hide like that.
What's the word I'm looking for?
Rationalization. That's it.
That's the ticket.
Chaos of random atoms and particles ramming into each other.
We know exactly how it happens, and why.
But, I miss faith. I need to remember that "we" is not a dirty
word, words, for fear.
When we were younger, I left you.
About month ago you did the same.
I'm sorry about the first one,
but not soo much the second time.
Not sure if you are coming back.
But even if you did, I'm not answering the door.
Just like I should have drove by the diner,
Just like you should of left him,
Just if you wanted to continue being
the person you wanted to be,
you shouldn't have asked and accepted
what I said. You said it made sense,
then you were gone!
Gone, I gave my two weeks, and even if you
showed up at my door right now, not.
Probably not. No issues abstracted,
one resolved.
I read that book,
and it bored the hell outta me.
Just as I hope it does to you, soon.
I'm starting to hear Aaron Copeland
all around me,
in the streets and in the rain that is replacing
snow.
In the conversations that I have
while I wander around downtown on my lunch
and wonder where our city went,
and why you moved to the country.
But in no way is this my justification.
You don't need one, you knew from the start.
But those are just wonderments,
not digestible to you.
and I don't need to bring them
into the future, I'll let 'em live in the past.
Just like this should've remained.
I am not self evident.
That I try to shy away from the "I"
Not because the "we" is all that better.
But it shields "we" and creates a canvas.
That we all can drop a pollock'd smear to,
and it is random and chaotic,
but holds a sense of meaning to those
who need to hide like that.
What's the word I'm looking for?
Rationalization. That's it.
That's the ticket.
Chaos of random atoms and particles ramming into each other.
We know exactly how it happens, and why.
But, I miss faith. I need to remember that "we" is not a dirty
word, words, for fear.
When we were younger, I left you.
About month ago you did the same.
I'm sorry about the first one,
but not soo much the second time.
Not sure if you are coming back.
But even if you did, I'm not answering the door.
Just like I should have drove by the diner,
Just like you should of left him,
Just if you wanted to continue being
the person you wanted to be,
you shouldn't have asked and accepted
what I said. You said it made sense,
then you were gone!
Gone, I gave my two weeks, and even if you
showed up at my door right now, not.
Probably not. No issues abstracted,
one resolved.
I read that book,
and it bored the hell outta me.
Just as I hope it does to you, soon.
I'm starting to hear Aaron Copeland
all around me,
in the streets and in the rain that is replacing
snow.
In the conversations that I have
while I wander around downtown on my lunch
and wonder where our city went,
and why you moved to the country.
But in no way is this my justification.
You don't need one, you knew from the start.
But those are just wonderments,
not digestible to you.
and I don't need to bring them
into the future, I'll let 'em live in the past.
Just like this should've remained.
Maybe you're right.
This is not original.
this is not your type of dribble.
a me, a my.
this is not me.
and I'm sorry that was the way I let you know.
If you think that this is my way,
goodnight, my friend.
Goodnight, my dear boy,
for the fact of what you may think I mean.
and for the fact you think that I lead,
and do not know where to put my hands.
but you really don't know me,
or what I'm attempting to say.
Just as I don't know squat about you.
I mean, maybe you are right,
maybe this is not the best reflection,
for how I felt.
I'll take care of my own shit,
in my own way.
I'll censor this now,
and let it be.
It'll be censored, in the present,
and in the future.
and no,
I won't put down the pen.
Just as I hope you never do.
this is not your type of dribble.
a me, a my.
this is not me.
and I'm sorry that was the way I let you know.
If you think that this is my way,
goodnight, my friend.
Goodnight, my dear boy,
for the fact of what you may think I mean.
and for the fact you think that I lead,
and do not know where to put my hands.
but you really don't know me,
or what I'm attempting to say.
Just as I don't know squat about you.
I mean, maybe you are right,
maybe this is not the best reflection,
for how I felt.
I'll take care of my own shit,
in my own way.
I'll censor this now,
and let it be.
It'll be censored, in the present,
and in the future.
and no,
I won't put down the pen.
Just as I hope you never do.
Your breath hang's thoughts (unfinished)
your breath hangs thoughts,
you dispel air.
your lips note worthy,
but not believable.
Your voice spills words
of sultry'd availability,
your drink spills. insolence of words,
and after.
one apology.
Like it has no control,
or bearing,
on that winter'd ship.
You cast sail towards our infinity.
The giant zero. what is it called?
Nothingness. It has no measure. no value.
no ability, for more, than a hundredthousand sweet nothings...
We have skyscrapers of contempt in the basement,
with Sera on second floor, answering all of the calls.
Ink stained, her middle right, her finger.
Her Fatima prophecies also scrawled
to her left hand side.
with mom on speed dial one,
a father, on two,
and eight more she has had never held down.
you dispel air.
your lips note worthy,
but not believable.
Your voice spills words
of sultry'd availability,
your drink spills. insolence of words,
and after.
one apology.
Like it has no control,
or bearing,
on that winter'd ship.
You cast sail towards our infinity.
The giant zero. what is it called?
Nothingness. It has no measure. no value.
no ability, for more, than a hundredthousand sweet nothings...
We have skyscrapers of contempt in the basement,
with Sera on second floor, answering all of the calls.
Ink stained, her middle right, her finger.
Her Fatima prophecies also scrawled
to her left hand side.
with mom on speed dial one,
a father, on two,
and eight more she has had never held down.
That last one is for sure.
If I could tell,
if this ever had
made
much sense.
Or had any
Forethought.
I would of never,
ever, of let you
known.
I wouldn't of even of
told myself.
But I know, I've known, actually.
For quite a while.
For every psalm leads to this.
I know the score,
I know your friends. And
you do know me, much more so.
Than a hole in the wall.
And I believe I've felt a few
traces of your idea.
But I will never, ever tell you.
not even right now.
I miss you from a far, with a far away stance
of three feet.
Or two thousand
five hundred
miles.
But I'll never, ever tell.
if this ever had
made
much sense.
Or had any
Forethought.
I would of never,
ever, of let you
known.
I wouldn't of even of
told myself.
But I know, I've known, actually.
For quite a while.
For every psalm leads to this.
I know the score,
I know your friends. And
you do know me, much more so.
Than a hole in the wall.
And I believe I've felt a few
traces of your idea.
But I will never, ever tell you.
not even right now.
I miss you from a far, with a far away stance
of three feet.
Or two thousand
five hundred
miles.
But I'll never, ever tell.
I am a carpenter. Happy birthday, kiddo.
I sit and fester.
and melt steel. For nails.
We save money for wood.
I build a house.
My hands bleed and I shoot off my own comparison to Christ.
Toss back a match, and burn it down.
This is not a new idea.
This is not a far stride.
But I've done it twenty eight times now,
I am old, at least I feel so... dumb.
I need your help, I need your amazement.
One needs a thought. One needs a following.
to all that have kept up with me, I am sorry.
One has to shut the fuck up.
I need to stop.
and melt steel. For nails.
We save money for wood.
I build a house.
My hands bleed and I shoot off my own comparison to Christ.
Toss back a match, and burn it down.
This is not a new idea.
This is not a far stride.
But I've done it twenty eight times now,
I am old, at least I feel so... dumb.
I need your help, I need your amazement.
One needs a thought. One needs a following.
to all that have kept up with me, I am sorry.
One has to shut the fuck up.
I need to stop.
douche bag (disjointed bullshit)
in the early morning we'd walk around,
and not talk about the things from the night before.
These things are of no real consequence, these are things that matter for neither you, or I.
Where do we actually expect this to go, with you so far away, with me trying not tothink of anything leering forward?
I hope, and so, do I wish that your relations with Jesus would bring you closer back to my house, or wherever you may think home is.
If there was ever a single, simple, point to my explanation, and no worries,that we'd retain. what had I said?
where would we recover?
i am NOT dead yet, well, at least to me.
I have not an ability for that thought.
A dollar seventy-five, and naught asingle belief in sight.
and not talk about the things from the night before.
These things are of no real consequence, these are things that matter for neither you, or I.
Where do we actually expect this to go, with you so far away, with me trying not tothink of anything leering forward?
I hope, and so, do I wish that your relations with Jesus would bring you closer back to my house, or wherever you may think home is.
If there was ever a single, simple, point to my explanation, and no worries,that we'd retain. what had I said?
where would we recover?
i am NOT dead yet, well, at least to me.
I have not an ability for that thought.
A dollar seventy-five, and naught asingle belief in sight.
no ability, for more, than a hundredthousand sweet nothings...
If this was the early 1800's, we would've died from polio,
if this were 1943, I'd probably'd be dead at war.
instead of adrift on sea...
my possessions ruffled through,
left without my boots, on this France
river bed. Skin drenched. From a war, that had meaning,
at leastof course, to those that'd been liberated.
To be liberated, for those who think with that rationale,
oh, to the hours! to the cafe underwrought
with expatriates! a toast to their bereft!
Possibly, a glass of wine and my poorly rolled smokes.
In as much as a bad accent, and of nothing else.
In the present, it is warm, sunny.
fifty two degrees.
Not such a thought in the sky.
An escape hatch, for you.
Each day, each passing moment left.
Your breath hangs thoughts.
You dispel air.
if this were 1943, I'd probably'd be dead at war.
instead of adrift on sea...
my possessions ruffled through,
left without my boots, on this France
river bed. Skin drenched. From a war, that had meaning,
at leastof course, to those that'd been liberated.
To be liberated, for those who think with that rationale,
oh, to the hours! to the cafe underwrought
with expatriates! a toast to their bereft!
Possibly, a glass of wine and my poorly rolled smokes.
In as much as a bad accent, and of nothing else.
In the present, it is warm, sunny.
fifty two degrees.
Not such a thought in the sky.
An escape hatch, for you.
Each day, each passing moment left.
Your breath hangs thoughts.
You dispel air.
no ability, for more, than a hundredthousand sweet nothings...
If this was the early 1800's, we would've died from polio,
if this were 1943, I'd probably'd be dead at war.
instead of adrift on sea...
my possessions ruffled through,
left without my boots, on this France
river bed. Skin drenched. From a war, that had meaning,
at leastof course, to those that'd been liberated.
To be liberated, for those who think with that rationale,
oh, to the hours! to the cafe underwrought
with expatriates! a toast to their bereft!
Possibly, a glass of wine and my poorly rolled smokes.
In as much as a bad accent, and of nothing else.
In the present, it is warm, sunny.
fifty two degrees.
Not such a thought in the sky.
An escape hatch, for you.
Each day, each passing moment left.
Your breath hangs thoughts.
You dispel air.
if this were 1943, I'd probably'd be dead at war.
instead of adrift on sea...
my possessions ruffled through,
left without my boots, on this France
river bed. Skin drenched. From a war, that had meaning,
at leastof course, to those that'd been liberated.
To be liberated, for those who think with that rationale,
oh, to the hours! to the cafe underwrought
with expatriates! a toast to their bereft!
Possibly, a glass of wine and my poorly rolled smokes.
In as much as a bad accent, and of nothing else.
In the present, it is warm, sunny.
fifty two degrees.
Not such a thought in the sky.
An escape hatch, for you.
Each day, each passing moment left.
Your breath hangs thoughts.
You dispel air.
Towards the vanity of nothing, or what we could've become.
it is almost that I don't remember you...
When you, we(!), were young, when I was oh so.(!)
we were.
Much more independent,
Insistently more.
Full of belief, much more than now...
In as such I believe that I am a slave to the ellipses...
in as much as I believe, I'd be a slave, from my own douchebaggdness.
In so much as I should, paraphrase the words of "no one",
"nothing," I'd say aloud... (we are not twelve(!!)), such as your vocabulary that could kick the darkness.
Sunlight.
in 7th grade, I had such a fine shroud look.
My look towards your way...
In seventh grade, I had a flaird, and carefree,
glance in your direction.
Such hair, flaw-free and careless, that my index and fore finger threw rounds to your own innocuous ability.
I couldn't of let you known.
or expressed it more complete
than my current ramblings.
I wish you were next to me,
in that way that you were.
In the way that we used to be.
In a flight of understanding.
In my twist of wind.
Towards the vanity of nothing,
or close to what we could've become.
It's late, you are no where to be found.
I am tired.
I am still going strong.
When you, we(!), were young, when I was oh so.(!)
we were.
Much more independent,
Insistently more.
Full of belief, much more than now...
In as such I believe that I am a slave to the ellipses...
in as much as I believe, I'd be a slave, from my own douchebaggdness.
In so much as I should, paraphrase the words of "no one",
"nothing," I'd say aloud... (we are not twelve(!!)), such as your vocabulary that could kick the darkness.
Sunlight.
in 7th grade, I had such a fine shroud look.
My look towards your way...
In seventh grade, I had a flaird, and carefree,
glance in your direction.
Such hair, flaw-free and careless, that my index and fore finger threw rounds to your own innocuous ability.
I couldn't of let you known.
or expressed it more complete
than my current ramblings.
I wish you were next to me,
in that way that you were.
In the way that we used to be.
In a flight of understanding.
In my twist of wind.
Towards the vanity of nothing,
or close to what we could've become.
It's late, you are no where to be found.
I am tired.
I am still going strong.
thirty seven dollars
in my account I have thirty seven dollars.
a few pennies more.
I have a date, we will wander around the streets of center square.
She has a bottle of bourbon and a sense of charity.
I have a few remaining wits about me, and twenty eight years.
round sixteen (boxing analogies are tired, are they not?) the shortest straw, the camel's dead, and I'm inscribed by the remnants.
a few pennies more.
I have a date, we will wander around the streets of center square.
She has a bottle of bourbon and a sense of charity.
I have a few remaining wits about me, and twenty eight years.
round sixteen (boxing analogies are tired, are they not?) the shortest straw, the camel's dead, and I'm inscribed by the remnants.
On Carver. And Revision.
Raymond Carver was a revisionist. He never let a word out before it was rewritten about seventeen times. Even then, when the New Yorker and Esquire were journalist's magazines(!), his stories would hit the newsstand and be revised before the book.
The book. The motherfucker was published. With a wife, and kids, and a night job as a janitor in a hospital, was published!
And, he was a drunk. Was he a self indulgent drunk? Possibly. Did he drink because of his art? Possibly, I can not ask him, for he is dead.
Oh, soo much more, would I like to believe that he did not. That he drank for the pressures that surrounded him on a daily basis. For having two kids, for working odd and meaningless jobs (for decades, even after he was published) in the pursuit of his art. Nay, scratch that, in pursuit of a sort of communication. Isn't that what artists drive for? Even if it is for themselves.
I remember one night, about four years ago, when my artistic compatriot Nick and myself were drunk, very much, so indeed. We were talking about the work of Salinger. For the fact that he was even brought to court over a trivial matter, but brought to the attention that he had volumes of unpublished work. Nick argued that this should be brought to light of his readers, I believed (as I still do) that it is the artists own ability to hold what expression they may need to bring to themselves, as opposed to those brought to the world.
The world, to fully grasp that concept, the billions of people, the hundreds of trillions of thoughts. The worry, the bullheadedness, the pedantic ego. Fucking kills me. With amazement.
I would love to believe in the one soul-mate, the one and only "lobster", for each and every one of us. Not to say that; each and everyone, are our one and only. Be all. Not to say that I even like myself (I do, ten percent of the time.)
I believe that I am here to do good, I just fault in very bad ways.
Anyway, back to Carver. I believe he was the brevity of the common man. I believe that his words move me. I know that he pisses me off.
I do know that this is not who I am. I just hope I'm still drunk enough to realize that, in the morning, of what I want to be.
-g
p.s. this has been rewritten five(now six) times. probably five(four) times more before the morning.
The book. The motherfucker was published. With a wife, and kids, and a night job as a janitor in a hospital, was published!
And, he was a drunk. Was he a self indulgent drunk? Possibly. Did he drink because of his art? Possibly, I can not ask him, for he is dead.
Oh, soo much more, would I like to believe that he did not. That he drank for the pressures that surrounded him on a daily basis. For having two kids, for working odd and meaningless jobs (for decades, even after he was published) in the pursuit of his art. Nay, scratch that, in pursuit of a sort of communication. Isn't that what artists drive for? Even if it is for themselves.
I remember one night, about four years ago, when my artistic compatriot Nick and myself were drunk, very much, so indeed. We were talking about the work of Salinger. For the fact that he was even brought to court over a trivial matter, but brought to the attention that he had volumes of unpublished work. Nick argued that this should be brought to light of his readers, I believed (as I still do) that it is the artists own ability to hold what expression they may need to bring to themselves, as opposed to those brought to the world.
The world, to fully grasp that concept, the billions of people, the hundreds of trillions of thoughts. The worry, the bullheadedness, the pedantic ego. Fucking kills me. With amazement.
I would love to believe in the one soul-mate, the one and only "lobster", for each and every one of us. Not to say that; each and everyone, are our one and only. Be all. Not to say that I even like myself (I do, ten percent of the time.)
I believe that I am here to do good, I just fault in very bad ways.
Anyway, back to Carver. I believe he was the brevity of the common man. I believe that his words move me. I know that he pisses me off.
I do know that this is not who I am. I just hope I'm still drunk enough to realize that, in the morning, of what I want to be.
-g
p.s. this has been rewritten five(now six) times. probably five(four) times more before the morning.
I could miss you but your further east, further than the world times one.
as far as I could tell, two years before, was that you had moved on.
Further away than what I thought was possible. I still think that you have.
I still think that you talk through this world in mysterious fonts, with a dictionary at your side, sprouting the anti-christ of blather. All of these things you left behind, all of those thoughts one and a half times around the world... my mind drifts...
Away to the tectonic coast, away from your pain, into a new world.
I'm sorry, I miss you. Lots some would say, the comma is my friend, brings me pause normally before I would say what I normally would. Or what I'd really want to.
The words of your scorn, my love, give me more.
Send whips of opinion, down my back, give me more.
Cause it's you I've waited my life to see,
It's you I've searched my heart for.
Further away than what I thought was possible. I still think that you have.
I still think that you talk through this world in mysterious fonts, with a dictionary at your side, sprouting the anti-christ of blather. All of these things you left behind, all of those thoughts one and a half times around the world... my mind drifts...
Away to the tectonic coast, away from your pain, into a new world.
I'm sorry, I miss you. Lots some would say, the comma is my friend, brings me pause normally before I would say what I normally would. Or what I'd really want to.
The words of your scorn, my love, give me more.
Send whips of opinion, down my back, give me more.
Cause it's you I've waited my life to see,
It's you I've searched my heart for.
I invent words on occasion. I do it for you
Once you told me something, it really wasn't important. In the long run. (at least, so I didn't believe.)
We all hope, someday that our lesson willl be won,
I miss you, towards our infernal eternity,
your unflattering eye scoping all that I am, or would like to be...
I am nothing. I once had a captive classroom attentiveness, towards, well... you. It's all become soo, passé, Blasé, even? Blech. Apathy should be contraband, should it not?
Where've you gone? What is our "next bold move", and are we even ready?
On this supposition, I drink towards this. This condolesence.
Ryan's father is dead. Dead. He'd even still be so and you've even seen this once before, have you not? "I'm all too great in your presence." Jesus!
High above the treeline, he holds his hat towards all of us. "It's a giant", I would say. We, or, I'd speak of - a "we" of condolence, a "we" of fight, a "we" of twenty seconds way too late.
For what do we truly, in hindsight, believe?
I miss your selfworthy thoughs, my dear.
I invent words on occasion.
I do it for you.
I think of that night, your birthday! That night, when we first met. I think of all those seven hours; I wanted to strangle you.
just until your breath would stop.
Or at least you wouldn't try to capitulate this. It leaves me dead, my dearest. Maybe I am. Or am I soo acting retarded? Towards this memory?
I could go on, but you're not here. Just a bottle of scotch that has it's handle on me.
Now where are my keys?
They're back home, a short yellow cab ride away.
We all hope, someday that our lesson willl be won,
I miss you, towards our infernal eternity,
your unflattering eye scoping all that I am, or would like to be...
I am nothing. I once had a captive classroom attentiveness, towards, well... you. It's all become soo, passé, Blasé, even? Blech. Apathy should be contraband, should it not?
Where've you gone? What is our "next bold move", and are we even ready?
On this supposition, I drink towards this. This condolesence.
Ryan's father is dead. Dead. He'd even still be so and you've even seen this once before, have you not? "I'm all too great in your presence." Jesus!
High above the treeline, he holds his hat towards all of us. "It's a giant", I would say. We, or, I'd speak of - a "we" of condolence, a "we" of fight, a "we" of twenty seconds way too late.
For what do we truly, in hindsight, believe?
I miss your selfworthy thoughs, my dear.
I invent words on occasion.
I do it for you.
I think of that night, your birthday! That night, when we first met. I think of all those seven hours; I wanted to strangle you.
just until your breath would stop.
Or at least you wouldn't try to capitulate this. It leaves me dead, my dearest. Maybe I am. Or am I soo acting retarded? Towards this memory?
I could go on, but you're not here. Just a bottle of scotch that has it's handle on me.
Now where are my keys?
They're back home, a short yellow cab ride away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)