3/18/11

I'm on a train, again, and my fingers are shaking,

which is visible in my writing, because I am writing this

on the back of a failed philosophy quiz,

while on the Metro North on my way to New Haven.

I got arrested, again, yesterday, because I was drunk.

There's no sleep on this line and my phone died

last night at some point, which is irrelevant because

I still feel sweaty and pale, uncomfortable but

unable to move, I am categorizing my thoughts,

and the events of yesterday, and struggling.

"Yesterday you might as well have drank all the beers

at all the bars, drank your weight in pints of guinness.

you found an Irish flag but you lost it,

you went to three liquor stores looking for drinks and your friend.

The city drained the life out of you, like it always

does, feeling listless, imagining quays and docks as you walked

down to the train station this morning and couldn't help

glaring at all the people who were shining,

and dressed for work, lives and wives and the stress of the day.

And New York drained your wallet too, they even almost

took your fake from you, but your crafty mouth did what it could;

which is often too much for your own good and you got it

back from the cop who knew that you were lying, but

drunk you find it easy to feign stubborn.

The overpriced drafts seemed appropriate at the time,

as often you erect excuses for yourself to justify

the spending of all but your final penny, yet still

the city tells you that you should be drinking Absolut

vodka and chasing with a lime not a soda.

Last night after she drained you, the city filled

your mouth and your head and the couch (pronounced bed)

with vodka and limes spilling like nickels and dimes out of slash

pockets, which is why you prefer cash and a money clip wallet.

But in the morning you were empty, thinking, "the lights that had warmed me

last night are all now shining too brightly, and while

the lampposts are out, the sky is grey and heavy and hot,

reflecting greedily off shimmering landscapes of steel

frames and panes of glass." The discomfort was heightened

by the lack of grass as heat waves emanated,

barely visible, from the concrete by your feet.

As you walked your eyes found your thighs and stayed there

not wanting to acknowledge the glares from policemen,

and it is easy to feel stalked by them on such busy streets,

and the heat of their stare made you feel as if they were

telling you to shave or comb your hair or asking where

you were going, expecting an excuse of some sort,

perhaps retort was more what they were used to in Manhattan

but you would prefer to be ignored, by them and the rest

of the shimmering denizens, functioning men

and women reminding you of constantly making tall tales

taller, wishing sometimes to make confession or find religion,

or to at least become a frequent caller on a radio show,

or a person that people wouldn't mind lending money to.

Your friends have always helped you out, though.

It's a tight spot you're in, pinched between sin and desire

ever since you could remember knowing one from the other.

So you tried to tell them to go fuck themselves,

with your eyes, but it's hard to pass judgement from the outside in,

and you more or less knew this, so you ended up flicking back

to the ground in front of your boots."

I'm sick of living as if I'm waiting for money to appear because

I know that I will spend it on beer, which is not the root of my problems

as much as the fact that I have no money to solve the ones

that require me, a liar, to be represented by something else called a lawyer.

I don't enjoy, but I also take solace in, the fact that

these commuters assume that I am the type of person

that exists only on public transportation, like

the rail between Grand Central Station and New Haven,

or on a bus going up 91, which still separates my car from the Masspike.

The immediate future has me anxious in the sense that

I don't know what to do in the present but I feel also that I must have

a plan of action regarding the infraction slip handed

to me the day before, and I need to charge my phone so

I'm scanning the dirty area by the floor in New Haven for an outlet,

absentmindedly hoping that I have enough cash left

to pay for the overnight parking in the station lot, and

to put a calculated amount of fuel in the tank. My mind wanders at a subdued pace,

wondering if I should be comparing gas prices or something,

and feeling quite small in such a big space, in the corner of the atrium

of the train station. I realized that I anticipated only

the events that would lower me further, which is an odd revelation,

but better to accept and explore this notion then to let ferment,

or even what better time then now? But I would rather wait, instead

to eat a sandwich with the girl I still loved, even though she didn't love me anymore.

beer money

too broke to buy anything but alcohol.

and you're sick of the girl you love telling you that you don't care as much as you think you do.

she should know that you have trouble showing it.

and you're also sick of waking up in stranger's beds.

it makes you feel weak.

mostly you are tired from sleeping on the floor,

tired of falling asleep to an infomercial on low volume-

how many people actually decide they need a blender at 5 in the morning?

because you're so tired these days but your head is always spinning too fast to be left alone with your thoughts.

no glint in your eyes any more.

it used to flash up sometimes,

and make you feel young and energetic, but then next thing it's gone,

like the warm feeling that rushes down your spine when you put down an empty glass,

that only really makes you need another.

it was there outside a brownstone in boston one night in january, and then it didn't come back until a tuesday

in april, at a bowling alley, drinking pitchers of beer and waiting for the klonopin to hit you.

the soft rush of benzodiazepines lingers, and you like when your head feels empty.

still scared to overindulge.

in the back of my head, somewhere, i have acknowledged that one day

i will apologize to everyone, for all the plans that fell through, and the broken promises.

i will tell them about my untreated manic depression,

try and use that as a mass grave for my many regrets, mostly things i couldn't

or just didn't do.

that's my escape plan, i guess.

if anyone ever told you people can change, they lied.

we don't change, we adapt.

it's a basic survival mechanism reliant on the fact that we are selfish creatures

who ironically need companionship to feel a sense of fulfillment.

but i suppose that's not a lot more than an evolutionary tendency to tie reproductive urges to seratonin reuptake.

churchtown

might as well be lost for the speed you're going,

might as well be standing still for the direction you're heading.

not the first time you've been lost in churchtown,

not the first churchtown you've been lost in.

it's always late afternoon and the sun never goes down.

there are no sirens in churchtown.

the church bells are always ringing in churchtown.

churchtown, new england.

there are abandoned mills in churchtown.

there's one liquor store in churchtown,

and one gas station, which also sells beer.

there are more churches in churchtown,

than there are in most towns.

at night in churchtown, the sun never comes up.

you can drink all night and never feel drunk,

until you wake up reaching for a bottle of pills and orange soda

which turns out to be only about 60% orange soda

which is not a surprise but also a nonplus to you

because even 100% orange soda is not refreshing,

flat and warm.

churchtown knows about hard times.

churchtown has hit hard times, but the church bells still ring.

churchtown doesn't talk about its problems

because it knows you have problems of your own.

and so in return, you don't try and tell churchtown either.

so in churchtown you talk about things like the weather,

or what you will eat for dinner,

and sometimes a lopsided knowing lip gesture is exchanged,

but the sentiment is in the eyes,

and it's better that way in churchtown.

cole ave

walking down to the liquor store

i see a boy, about 10,

lining up budweiser cans from his recycling

on his porch railing

because he's tired of sledding,

and he's got his hands on a pellet gun.

pops and crunches and soft snow sounds

pepper the air and it's grey out

on february 24, while i'm

walking down to the liquor store

i see two art kids, carrying brown bags,

the kind that already graduated college,

and probably think it's real and gritty

to live in small town, ma.

small town, ma is only gritty because of

the sand for the roads and the salt for the ice,

only real because it's not plastic.

small town, ma is more broken down,

rotted out, abandoned, tired, and grey,

on february 24th, as i'm

walking down to the liquor store.

winter grime lines the street

and sidewalk, and the houses are missing panelling,

and a car is parked in a yard barely visible

under all the snow, and there is no sun

and there are no clouds. just grey sky,

grey snow, grey roads, grey ice,

as i'm

walking down to the liquor store,

on cole avenue,

in small town, ma

red white and blue

the stars and bars,

and the lights on top of police cars.

rapid acceleration of limbs causes quick intake of breath and trouble catching it quickly but at least they are not catching you, no they will not be catching you, not again. not tonight.

it is not easy to sit in the back of a police cruiser.

it is not like the movies, and your hands are cuffed,

behind your back.

and the seat is a plastic bench,

and cops do not drive well,

because they don't need to,

honestly, have you ever heard of a cop giving a cop a ticket?

spending the night in jail, much worse.

honestly who can commit suicide with their watch?

please just let me keep my watch on.

my collect call pay phone is broken.

so for now quick legs, shredded fingers and palms from the fences and the bushes, not again, not tonight.

this morning

i woke up in a chair this morning,

underneath my sweatshirt.

the warmth in the air and the tangible progression from spring to summer

won't let me go a minute without thinking of you

and how a year ago at this time i was the happiest i ever was in my life.

such is life, a long winter comes and then the mountain crossing is impassable,

and there might as well be time zones between me and where i wish to be.

i was young, athletic, and flushed with youth and drink and neurotransmitters

coursing through my veins, breeding happiness in my brain.

a long slow bleed has dripped it all out of me since then.

the smell brings some back, but mostly the pain of the loss;

the smell of her hair, and spring, and at first my lips twitch into a smile

from muscle memory, or something like that, it's not real at least.

i try to write in these elevated prose but always fall back to colloquial bullshit,

and i can't escape who i am. i think it just caught up to me,

this morning, so many beautiful girls on this campus and i'm sitting inside

pitying myself with my eczema and my heavy heart,

and my little bottle of rattling pills that makes me feel warm when i'm holding it.

i need to shower,

i want to remember more how it feels

standing by the beer pong table after winning the track new england championships

being drunk in west hartford, holding a box of wine.

that backpack i used to carry, full of 40s and condoms and in general just

the smell of summer.

brett has sold the house since.

the backpack has always had a broken zipper but now the front pocket is

contaminated with far too many used condoms,

knotted into balloons and stuffed back in their wrappers.

i always intended to toss them after i got off her road.

i hate who i am now.

the sooner i accept that i will never be young again the easier it will be.

but i can never accept that.

i prefer

hating who i was as opposed to who i am

past few months

we don't feel much different than we did on august 29,
when we sat on the green at 3am and smoked away the grime and the allure
of stripclubs and gas station convenience stores.

the newspaper car went house to house sometime around four,
and we watched from the dew damp grass
where we set off fireworks months before.

up and down west Hartford streets,
slowly swerving to get both sides in one sweep,
pausing at every house.

flatline

http://www.sendspace.com/file/4tc97o

cross-country

they sold the city where i was born.

you burned the bridges when i was torn.

you talked shit i looked forlorn,

standing on the corner chewing cherry stokers-

you with your heavy jacket and the fingers and teeth of a smoker.

my heart's in my pocket, thank god for my belt.

heavy heads heavy hearts

we were fucked from the start.

on wednesday a little after 11:30am,

a man will tell me that i am consumed by self-loathing and guilt.

i already know this, it's in my dreams every night.

like when i'm standing in the rain and you won't let me in.

like when i'm bleeding out on the sidewalk from cuts half a foot deep.

like when i'm walking home at 4am and nothing matters

because i left half my guts in a urinal at 9 the last night.

and i miss you sometimes.

and when i wake up in the morning i will read this note that i do not remember leaving myself:

"you're down,

but not much more than usual.

your deodorant is making you nauseous.

you have a throbbing headache.

you remember reading somewhere that alcohol disrupts sleeping patterns.

curl up, face the wall, hot flashes, damp forehead.

when you feel like this, you find it hard to feel strongly about anything."

NOVEMBER 2010

the roads in your dreams are paved so smoothly.
there are short trees shedding leaves over sidewalks
the concrete slab kind,
not tarmac;
where sidewalks are probably unnecessary,
next to perfect triangular curbs with rounded tops,
where curbs are probably unnecessary.

and the roads wind a little bit more than they need to,
to appear more natural less subdivided.
and twilight lingers a little longer than it needs to,
to make you feel at peace, especially when you're not.

the roads in your childhood are dirt,
and they get muddy when it rains, and they develop washboard ridges,
and sometimes you fall off your bike and skin your knees and elbows.

there's a small bridge over the fenton river,
where the guy who works at the convenience store parks to eat his lunch and smoke his reds,
and he hits your dog with his car once,
which makes your father angry, but you're just happy your dog is alright.

when you wake up the roads are always full of people.
the sidewalks are always occupied.
you are always preoccupied, even though nothing is on your mind.

OCTOBER 2010

I've tried to erase you from my memory,
but there are a couple things I can't forget.
I mean fuck, I was only 12 years old
and you convinced me to read dantes inferno in your neighbors attic that summer,
and there was no air conditioning,
and you took care of their cats when no one was home.
looking back I probably would have kissed you,
if you were prettier,
or if I liked you as much as you liked me.

I mean, you're the reason I started writing.
when you asked me if the blink-182 lyrics on my notebook were something I wrote myself.
I thought you were talking about my notes, maybe being sarcastic-
"yes of course i wrote them"
fuck, then I felt dumb,
you obviously meant the lyrics and I was so young I still got nervous around girls.

you thought they were amazing and I didn't have the heart to spoil your admiration.
when you found out they weren't mine, you didn't have the heart to tell me.
so I felt like I had to write, to show you that I actually could, because you kept asking.

so we both filled spiral notebooks with shitty middle school poetry-
ABAB, AABB rhyme schemes.
and then I threw it at the bottom of a junk drawer and tried not to ever find it again, but every time i did i didn't have the heart to throw it out,
like I'm sure you did with yours when you hated me,
and you had good reason to.
I was immature and couldn't talk to you because of how you cared about me.
I'm sorry I didn't explain myself I'm sorry it happened overnight-
I guess I was scared by how mature your feelings were.
I guess I still am.

remember the time that we were sitting on my dock and I said I didn't want to grow up?
you said we didn't have to, that we could choose-
we could sit on the dock forever or we could get older and then try and find innocence again, or at least complacency,
with love and alcohol and sex and drugs.
I said I wanted to sit on the dock,
and then we dunked our heads in the water,
and laughed and went to watch our friends play sandlot baseball.
but I wasn't content like you were,
I'm still not.

OCTOBER 2010

there's not much moving on the tarmac on new years day, 2008.
you have an 8 hour layover in chicago
young enough to enjoy the freedom of being far from home, traveling alone,
old enough to have something better to do.

so you sit there and watch slow moving machines and people,
hunched against the cold, with orange earmuffs and gloves
from the end of a deserted terminal, 24 gates long,
while a custodian mops the floor down by gate 12
or maybe 14.

and even though you consider yourself very observant,
you won't notice until the summer of 2010 when you are flying home from Africa, on friday the 13th,
that airports don't have 13th gates,
and airplanes don't have row 13's.
when you realize this you will tell the tourists next to you who are considerably older than you, but will be equally as surprised.
even though they look like the kind of people who have flown on lots of planes,
and therefore should know these things.

anyways, back in chicago on new years day,
you're bored with nothing to do
so you entertain the thought of jerking off in the bathroom for a while.
3 months and 10 days later you will be checking in at JFK,
on your birthday.
your dad told you happy birthday when you woke up,
but your mom didn't remember until the lady at the check in counter looked at your passport
and mentioned outloud that you had just turned 16.

so you go through security and you're in the terminal again
and you get three text messages from three friends,
and you think it would be nice if you could sleep through the entire flight,
because you were up so late last night.
and when you land in Argentina it will be tomorrow,
and that won't be so bad.

but anyways, back in chicago on new years day,
you have four more hours of sitting still left to do,
but you don't have cellphone service,
and the news anchor on tv will continue talking
whether or not you were there to watch,
and the custodian is ignoring you,
and it's not so bad.

OCTOBER 2010

cumberland farms, north adams
1 bike
1 slushie
2 am
6 miles from home
78 cents in change

you've heard home is where the art is,
so is MASS MoCA home?
with it's upside down trees?
this whole town is on it's knees.

sitting on a curb somewhere, smelling the cold in the air,
your teeth still ache from 13 separate fillings,
one month old.
was august 31 not the day before yesterday?
you feel like you're in springfield but you cant hear I-91
which could bring you home if you wanted it to.

because you've heard home is where the start is,
and there's a liquor store on the corner of sisson ave
and a place to park by MPS,
and a boxcar racer cd in your glovebox.

so it's sunday morning after a long friday night
leave quickly before 8 before anyone wakes up
snow fell overnight, clear skies, brush off your car, squint your eyes,
it's not so bad to be alive.

4 hours later standing on the steps, the snow is melting,
spring is coming, the end is beginning.

you've heard home is where the part is-
that you long for, but can't have
because once you leave you can't go back.

APRIL 2010

4/2/10 first nice day of spring

i was in waterbury yesterday.
from I-84 which runs through it like a river
it looked coastal, built into the hills.
and the churches and the train station were always big and far away.

on grand street if people were moving
they were moving slowly-
it made it seem like everyone was standing still
like the girl's outside of joe's tire, perched on their car in the parking lot
next to the mcdonald's where the two middle aged men sat in their
rusted out dodge charger, with their arms hanging out the window.

they had leathery skin that hung off them at their joins just a little-
like their dirty white t shirts and levi's.

it was warm enough to sweat at the bottom of your back.

you know when you let the car idle in a parking lot,
and then you realize you won't be leaving anytime soon, so you kill the engine?
yeah time started off crawling and then it learned to walk
and next thing i knew it could run faster than I could.

4/3/10 second nice day of spring

waking up was reason enough never to drink again.
i felt like i'd never be happy.

threw some trash in the dumpster at 10 talcott notch
and it smashed on the bottom next to a bag from wendy's.

heading home i'm thinking of changing

wish i could play catch with my dad today.
wish i could ride my bike today.
same clothes as yesterday, could have said the same thing yesterday.
maybe i'll turn 18 today.

MARCH 2010

i never thought i knew it all but i always thought i had a sense
of lights and sounds, like these sirens and this sunset.

so while i'm sitting still and keeping quiet,
i want to modify my memory and think of something real to be.
let me be the moment of truth. the one exchanged with a knowing look in a car in a parking lot after the conversation has fallen short and spirits have fallen further. let me be the words that you want to hear when i'm falling apart and you believed in me so much.

and i'm worried that were growing up and covering ourselves
in all these things we care about so much, as if we can give them truth, as if the world is ours to bend and break. i want to be humble, i want to accept that i am irrelevant, i want the language to know that i am a lower-case "i".

let me be something that you don't care about anymore. let me turn red like blood when i am exposed to the air. the still in the air before the thunderstorm and the rain.

i only smile when i feel obligated to.
i breathe out of necessity.
i am a typo in a textbook.
i am malfunctioning machinery, outwardly working perfectly,
when i explode, please forget me, and write me out of memory.
painful evidence of a perfect plan gone wrong, let me be the exception to the rule.

NOVEMBER 2009

Because you asked me what are we doing and I didn't know what to say:

So we're standing on the overpass and it's cold. And we're shivering. Then we're not.
We're leaning on the guardrails and it's late. So late that it's early- 3 in the morning, and the funny stories aren't funny anymore. So you're talking serious and I'm laughing at you. So what. Now I'm looking straight at you and you're laughing at yourself. So what.

And so time stops, because the people in their cars can't see us, and then we're not there. We're not suspended over highway 84 anymore. We're just staring down at speeding cars, and staring down approaching cars. And they fly by on the exit ramp, the one that's five feet away from our empty overpass--covered in graffiti, pools of bottles, and broken light that is meant for the two ramps above us on which cars still drive. So what.

So we walk back, out of the light, off of the bridge. It's cold again. It's dark. Is the sun coming up? So what. Fuck the sun. Fuck tomorrow. So I kick a can all the way down the overgrown stretch of highway. And you don't say much. But the trees are short here, and we're on top of the hill. LIke we're above the tree-line, skiing somewhere. But we're not, and we're not there. Instead there are young, short, stunted trees, dragged down by vines. So what. So we can see the lights of the city 'cause of this, and we can see our breath. And you don't say much.

I ditch the can at the mountains of sand and gravel and we vault the guardrail and slide down the dirt slope. Back in the woods, we hop the chain link fence, and then we're walking out behind the shrine to the nameless saint. And the path is paved now, and other saints watch us pass now, but we don't stop to kneel. So what. I never got confirmed. And the monastery always looks eerie at night, with weird spotlights on weird statues, that all either look outdated or unfinished.

So what. Six overpasses over I-84. Six steel strings, like those on the guitar that the guy played at the Thai place. But crisscrossing like when you rip the skin off a baseball. And three of them don't go anywhere.

finding out christmas

as my father drains the dregs of his wine

i'll crawl up these stairs, one at a time.

i'll avert my eyes from the ghosts in shadows,

the ones that continue to follow where i go-

and all of a sudden we feel so far a-part,

and this corridor's orange and falling apart.

as my mother stands and stares at the sink,

i'll sit in the chair and finish my drink.

i'll curl up in the seat but i won't close my eyes.

the warmth of the fire can touch my insides-

like the sun on a run before a cool autumn night.

as i watch, in the corner of my eyes,

my father drains the dregs of his wine

and i'm climbing the stairs, one final time.

to find what i've been looking for all along,

to find who i am, before i am gone.

and it is

And then there are those times in bed when no one shut the outside light by your window off,

And as it shines overhead you can pretend it's the moon-

as your breathing to yourself, 'just fine, just fine.'

I feel in these moments that I have never been further from knowing what I am doing:

A reminder that every day, we are all just living.

So you turn to those memories and images that almost have a texture in your mind.

And you're skiing through the snow in the woods in Vermont, 

or you're jumping down the sand dunes like they're the end of the earth-

And they are.

Then you're running barefoot down the dark cobbled streets:

And the pitter of your feet patters 'Just fine, just fine.'

these days

        i keep coming to my senses with my head in my hands, or braced on the edge of the desk. with my hair in my fists i feel insane. i keep finding notes i've written myself, and of all the things that happened last week, i cant remember which were dreams,

     sometimes as my head falls back, i can let it all go while i hold on tight.

     i remember this day i was so convinced i had figured out imagination; when i closed my eyes, i saw speeding racecars, but when i blinked and shut my eyes tight all over again, they had sped off. and in fourth grade i tried to tell my teacher that racecar was a palindrome but she didn't believe me. 

      but then there were saltine crackers, and track races and math textbooks that i stole in middle school by accident- that plagued my conscience but i was too scared to return them the next year thinking my teachers would be mad i hadn't done so promptly last june. and sometimes i wonder where i would be if it hadn't been for the people who forced me to be something. 

      and then with the hand me down track spikes and the pick me up ice cream cones with the pretty girl who i didn't understand, came the means to be something by myself. and with the summer and the short hair and the long bike rides, and with times on top of the car at night, and the times asleep in the sand, came the chance. 

     but i'm still sorting it out, sorting myself out. there are times when i forget my thoughts before they reach my lips, and times when i forget how to move my legs or grit my teeth. 

       i catch myself when i forget what summer feels like. what fast feels like, or skin on skin, but more importantly skin on concrete, and blood in my veins- or the sound on the dock in the rain surrounded by lily pads and the smell of wet dog. these are the things i won't let myself lose sight of if i open my eyes. our imagination leaves us when we have enough memories to go on without it, i think.

      i grit my teeth as i rip my knuckles open over and over again.

     and sometimes i'm on the right track.

     and when i grit my teeth the fourth time round the track, i feel so fucking weightless; falling apart has never looked so graceful, as i leave myself behind me for the entire world to see. 

everything, everwhywhere. fuck.

and when i was little i wanted to dig up what was left after the dinosaurs died.

and now i want to die.

in some cabinet somewhere, index labelled and easily overlooked,

my life between the thick black lines.

is this

really falling apart?

so close, so close, so close

to the goal, the close, the finish

line.

so where

does it come from?

the strength to see us to our end-

when i cant push myself anymore,

it's falling apart,

everything like i've always known it would.

it should have been a sign, those times

i couldn't move my feet

like i knew they could.

well i pull, when there's no more push i pull

on that elusive inconcrete feeling-

and recently it hasn't been working.

tangiers

at the counter at the deli,

where the slicer turns meat into money-

with a newfound love for everything,

it is all so comforting.

these scenes from my youth.

but the people here are experts,

at hiding themselves in hollow words.

their wrappings wrapped tightly,

'what we obtain too cheap, 

we esteem too lightly.'

united for a common cause:

who could call us friends?

planned, scheduled, figured out.

not the calm, calculated kids, who

figured out the mysteries of the world-

like trails from jets we streaked

(across the sky, but we were only temporary).

this was me, a flaming memory.

defeated, dejected, down.

whatever happened to my memory?

people and places spill out at the seams.

i was young, i was naive, full of dreams,

as i tried to catch every falling leaf

(oh, how they darted and dived on

hidden currents of air invisible to my eyes).

this was me, a soaring dream, a floating leaf.

desperate, drained, young.

the times when the floor

is a more comfortable bed-

the shaking in my hands, the pounding in my head-

(thoughts are threatening, ever threatening,

like clouds of saline rain over the ocean.

the waves turn black and sweep me away).

this was me. this is it.

i think i will, rest my head.

i wish more than anything i could give it all away,

give it all up, and give myself up.

pull me, tear me, bend me, break me,

whatever you will, i won't-

(no, i can't) fight you anymore.

if you can't believe me, then leave me be-

i used to try and write stories

but then someone told me, 

that i should start with the beginning and the end,

and then filling in the rest should be easy.

so i tried it, and it ruined me.

if you're going to a place you don't want to go,

then what really matters, 

is how you get there...

so many unfinished stories.

i sit in this chair, every single day,

without exception.

but then there will be a time

when i won't even sit in this room every day.

but then someone told me, 

that the first step to fixing your problems

was acknowledging the truth.

and i sit here every day,

and i am sad here most days.

but then someday i won't even sit in this room,

and the moments when i realize

that this is the happiest i have ever been,

and will probably ever be...

they ruin me.

if i ever was

for years we have tried to squint our eyes and stare at the sky. 

what is this pressure in my chest?

what is left?

what is this feeling in my feet?

i have to let it out i have to let it out.

i can feel my heart beat, there is something it keeps

locked in, the stanzas of our existence will intertwine-

the swirling leaves and falling colors,

we will all collapse, a grand collapse.

noise like the wind through the forests, over the rivers, across the seas-

thunder through the towns and the wharfs and the city streets.

everything will listen,

everything will be

what i have never felt, i will feel this time.

i am scared, i am terrified, this is mine, and i slide-

my panoramic view spinning and spinning, lightning and lighting

the colors the shapes, my life before my eyes,

everything unwinds.

i am awed by your power,

shocked by your grace.

choking and spitting and pale in the face-

hooked in my nose, the noise the noise,

the speed of your words through the air and the space.

thoughts like missiles crash into the churches, the bridges and barns,

explaining the sparks and stabs and stings

all of this, the things that cant be put to words, they ring

in my ears, before my eyes, my life-

it always ends on a riverbank in the sun at the end of the summer.

there is something in me that i do not understand.

a letter

"you can't be what you don't feel," he said,

and i believed him, and i was sad,

sad for the things i couldn't be, and the things i couldn't write.

"but you will grow up someday,

whether you feel like it or not"

and i believed him, and i did.

hey kid, there's a world out there to be lived in,

and you can't write what you don't feel

so how are you gonna write it?

and how are you gonna live it?

and how will you make it?

yours. and what will you chase?

people? dreams? storms? 

wherever you are, i hope you wont stay.

hey kid, slow down, you aren't mistaken yet.

there's a story out here, and we all just live in it.

the hours you wonder over words do not go to waste.

you have to believe that worlds collide in this place.

and walk with sure steps through the prairies and plains.

i will meet you there, where it never rains.

there is a fence at the end of this field,

and there is a storm at the end of this world. 

"you have clouds in your eyes," he said,

and lightning in my chest, i thought,

thought of the wind that moves me through the skies.

"and you have a mind like a mirror,

so go live your story, kid"

but when i wrote my life, it came out as a letter.

a sonnet

when i was four and a half, i fell in love

with the tall trees of corn and a toy truck full of grubs.

on the roof of your car we watch the sun, barely above

the treetops, dread going home and gaze at dead corn stubs.

driving my father's car for the first time, i swing

off the road to watch a flustered turkey flock

wandering through a frozen cornfield, intently gleaning. 

from the car i watch as the quiet birds peck the stalks.

now on the same state highway we take a detour.

i've always seen this road, 'let's go for a walk'

is all the convincing i need. i've always loved to explore.

stomping through the cornfields i splinter brittle stalks

and paint my cuffs with encrusted mud, because despite the early frost,

the following thaw had softened the earth, hardening my thoughts.

we will make our peace with everything

when i was little i would catch bugs and put them in glass jars.

then my father bought me a yellow and clear plastic bug keeper.

after that i would create lives for my friends in this miniature habitat.

i had two fascinations: bugs and dinosaurs. and since dinosaurs were extinct,

and i had deemed bugs more manageable, i caught bugs.

this was my first experience with love.

i could never let them go. and thimble fulls or bottle caps

of water were never sufficient to preserve their existence.

so it was sad, but i couldn't let them go. i would rather

see them grow feeble and fail in front of my eyes than let them fly

away, and that, i think, is the really fucked up part of this.

no matter how sad it was to watch them die, i could not watch them go.

and that, i think, is the really fucked up part of love.

it made my father sad, to watch these events unfold.

and now, looking back, i know where all the grasshoppers, moths,

caterpillars and frogs disappeared to while i left them unattended as i slept.

when i was eleven and it was summer, i went to Jake's house for the night.

and his step-dad got mad when we played nintendo in the basement

while Jake was supposed to be cooking his step-dad's dinner.

and that night we chased the winking lights in the dusk by the power lines,

and we captured almost twenty fireflies, which we put in a jar with holes

in the lid, which we left by the window. and for the first time

in our lives, we stayed up through the entire night.

and as the bugs' lights began to dim, Jake suggested that we release them.

so we walked through his yard in the dew and the mist and for the first time

in our lives, we stood in silence and watched the sun rise, as the fireflies

fluttered away feebly. although i had no idea why, for the first time

in my life, i felt very melancholy, a word i couldn't have defined.

and i haven't caught a single firefly since that night,

we grew up, Jake and i, and we left bugs behind.

but more important than that, i think i'm too scared to try.

and that, i think, is the really fucked up part of life. 

i sleep with my eyes open

and i see ghosts in every room.

i see your face in every picture,

and i get scared when i'm alone-

i get scared and i'm alone.

i am the cold creeping down your spine,

and i am the sting dripping from your eyes.

the catalyst of my transgression-

i believed all of your lies.

another

with connor this time-

http://www.sendspace.com/file/h5dcm9

tomorrow

in the red light of apocalypse,

in the red dawn of a new world-

we will pad the first footprints into the dust

and the dirt,

the bent steel jungle is all around us

and the ruins of ancient highway overpasses

tower over us like steel wires,

holding in the earth so it doesn't explode.

follow this link-

music by jon, lyrics/vocals by me

http://www.sendspace.com/file/4w5hk8

shorts (again)

people, places and pronouns

in years you will wish,

that everything had been simple

and that you had not lost sight of dreams

amidst good intentions and bad impressions.

because nothing is as it seems,

yet we make our peace with everything.

i am the sound,

of your voice hanging in the air.

i am the animal you keep well hidden,

in the back of your head, causing you to pull at your hair.

are you scared?

why will no one ever be as terrified of me

(because nightmares are only when

your conscience sleeps with you)

as i am of myself?

at a stop sign, in a snowstorm,

i've never felt so alone.

and i've never needed someone so bad.

not for company,

no i need you, to recreate myself

in your questioning eyes-

maybe this time i will write answers

that i can convince myself to believe.

i've always had a problem with authority,

i've always had a problem with growing up.

so many hopes built on so much uncertainty

when i was young i was wise,

and as i grew older i grew wiser-

and more adept at fooling myself.

but now i have accepted,

i'm much better off being hated than being loved.

the suburbs have suburbs

there's something to be said for ritualized suffering.

at least that's what they say.

and finding someplace to shut your eyes,

because you spent the whole night,

running from the day- 

now morning's here, so quick before it's light,

let's sleep it all away.

and your sense of humor is the first thing to go,

at least that's what they say. 

11/22/09

for the life of me,

i could not tell you why.

but believe me,

i would give anything;

only just to be...

now bundle up,

keep your breath inside.

it's the life of you.

(and in vain we try,

to stay warm in the wind-

and dry in the rain.)

in vain, in vain.

now rise to your feet,

take two steps outside.

broken trees, broken leaves,

debris. 

(what is left of this?

what did you do?)

it was me. 

so we ask ourselves,

what is wrong with us?

we can't help but be so sad.

i would give everything; 

only just to be...

just exist with me

and walk along the sidewalk.

it's cold out tonight.

yes, very cold.

let's take our hands,

now ball them into little fists-

where the knuckles are white

and the thin skin hiding your bulging tendons

feels neglected in the wind. 

and let's walk down that street,

the one with all the little houses and the two sidewalks.

the last time we were here it was summer.

there was a band playing in the garage,

and someone was eating a hot dog.

then a better band played,

and people listened,

and the sun went down.

but back then, the sun was bad at saying goodbye,

and it stayed watching, 

peering at us through branches,

until it was finally ushered away,

by hills and the horizon.

and now the sun gets bored of us easily,

and sidles away while were distracted,

early in the afternoon.

it gets cold when the sun is gone.

but we bundle up and we walk the same roads.

tonight there is no one on the streets.

doesn't it give you shivers?

and here i am again

back on my back,

back on my bed,

staring at the designs on the ceiling..

blink and they're gone,

blink and they're gone.

another useless confession

i think that sometimes you forget,

that i'm only so tall, 

so strong, 

so smart.

and i'm trying, i'm trying.

i mean it so earnestly,

i don't think i've ever meant anything more.

but it's never been this hard.

i mean it so earnestly,

i don't think i've ever meant anything more.

that, i suppose,

is 'trying' by definition.

it's choices- all choices.

i don't even make my own choices.

my choices make me.

i won't be everything.

if i could i wouldn't.

i won't be happy.

if i could i would- but it's so far out of everyone's reach.

but i will run.

i know i will run. 

i couldn't stop running if i wanted to.

and it makes me content, because i'm chasing happiness.

and what i've realized is, 

chasing something,

even if you know you will never catch it-

makes you content.

i'm going to run, and i'm going to fly.

and i will be proud.

you will be proud.

the sun will be proud and the sky will be proud.

every road i have ever walked on will be proud.

minutes and hours and days will be proud. 

the rain and the snow and the haze will be proud.

everyone and everything and every time and every place.

all proud for me,

all happy for me.

because people are only capable of being happy for someone,

never for themselves.

and i am me for me,

and i am me for you.

i am going to stare up at the clouds and know,

that someday somewhere i will be under the same sky,

in different clothes, in a different time,

but the sky is proud, and i am proud.

i am only so tall,

so strong,

so smart.

i am only so me,

i am only so happy.

and i've never meant anything more earnestly.

awake and dreaming

they say no one dreams anymore.

that's what they say.

but i do ...

i do.

aye, do.

what are dreams but eye dew?

and the time is ripe for dreaming.

the world has never been so big,

and you, you and your thoughts-

are part of something so huge.

'cause somewhere, high above our heads,

decisions are being made,

and our dreams are what makes them-

not just our dreams-

but the dream. 

there is a dream for the oceans,

and a dream for the mountains,

a dream for the sky and the clouds,

and a dream for noises and sound.

and all the dreams you've ever dreamed,

and all the lights you've ever seen.

every word on every page of every book-

and every dream in every house on every night.

this is all the dream.

this is all a dream.

such is our life built on dreams,

and such is the way of the world.

for better or for worse,

i am a dreamer.

another day

and another night,

i'm cold, and wide awake.

i have circles like bruises,

and my eyes, they never shut all the way.

it's a cold night and i am grateful,

i'm holding onto something strong.

i'm going to make it out,

i'm going to make it out. 

i apologize

for me, and for you,

and all the clouds in the sky.

i'm sorry for the city's lights,

i'm sorry for the brightness of the night.

i'm sorry you cant sleep,

and i'm sorry about your sheets.

i didn't mean to steal them,

but left alone in your house-

i got scared and took a piece of you.

i'm sorry for everything i never did.

(am i doomed to live in the past?

the regrets i feel are the regrets,

of never taking the time to regret.)

i saw you sitting there,

day after day. 

but one humans warmth can't heat the earth,

and that patch of grass- 

was just as damp and cold as the next one.

and for that, i apologize.

the security of heavy blankets

sitting in silence,

meaning is sinking into words all around me.

i feel tired and scared.

i'm covered, 

i'm covered.

such a glorious waste of sleep

growing up, wasting time-

and running away from home..

there's never enough hours in the day,

i'm going to run away,

i swear i'll run away.

i'm gonna try and catch time, 

and find a place to stay.

dear mike mulligan,

when we were little,

the sun was a mystery happily left unsolved.

if i could take one thing back,

i would never have asked where it went at night.

flying down highways in the passenger seat,

please, please, please.

bring the sun back, it's a night of blinking lights,

and crashing sounds flashing in the sky..

tell me,

where did all the stars go?

me and my absentee ballot

sometimes i get that feeling-

slowly creeping down my spine,

and i feel like i could run forever into the twilight.

as if forgetting everything i cared about

could grant me the levity to fly.

as if forgetting who i am

could give me the energy to live.

as if..

i only get this way after dark.

time can't fly because it doesn't have wings

i fall asleep sad,

and wake up indifferent.

somewhere between the dismal gray of dawn,

and 11:59 that night,

things becomes a little harder to bear.

there is nothing more miserable,

than lying awake in bed-

listening to a thousand and one lonely crickets.

change stays the same

everything is so wrong these days.

i don't know how i'm supposed to feel,

in the end i'm nothing but sad-

i can't even decide if it's a prerequisite,

or a direct consequence of a bigger thing.

i never gave any season any permission,

to swallow me and chew me up-

spitting me out the same person in different clothes.

and here i am all over again,

at the same desk, the same light,

(one of the bulbs has burned out)

wondering if ramen noodles and the early november

can get me through the fall semester..

i will give you anything,

if you could make me warm dry and lonely.

i've been so fucking emotional lately.

scaring myself, late at night

i need something,

other than legs-

to break my fall.

what if my legs are already broken?

and i don't even know it..

don't flinch

walking in, in blue clothes,

complimenting your depressing mood.

well isn't it ironic?

who the fuck knows?

is this the game where you suck the life out of me?

isn't it ironic that thoughts prefer cold damp places?

yet you insist on pulling them out.

your finger nails gouge the back of my throat,

and i still find it ironic,

that most thoughts should remain unspoken,

making it hard even to prove their existence..

i think that it might be ironic,

i've never seen someone look so sad

in such a pretty dress.

finding meaning in mansfield

remember when things were simple?

and we just wrote notes about people,

who we mildly disliked-

then passed them in class?

untitled #3

you are stronger than you will ever know.

the weight of the world rests on your shoulders-

so evenly distributed, 

it's easy to mistake it for gravity.

untitled #2

stop crying baby,
stop crying please please.
you have nothing to cry about,
please be content with your life's simplicity.

i have so many things to cry about,
that i've forgotten how to cry.

your cradle is so secure,
your world is so small.
enjoy it because it only lasts so long.

maybe babies only cry because they know how big the world actually is,
and it scares them.
i don't remember what it feels like to be that young anyway,
but it still scares me.

i hope i will be happy

i have this dream i can't stop dreaming-

where i wake up and i'm alone,

alone flying down country lanes;

i leave dust suspended in the air,

chasing storms, i fly with flair

now watch me fly,

i have never felt so alive.

untitled #1

you're beautiful-

like grass blowing in the wind,

you are beautiful.

but beautiful is such a fragile word,

and beauty is so intangible,

intangible and untouchable.

you are you,

you are beautiful.

skin and bones and a heartbeat-

you are here, 

i can touch you and i can hold you.

stand tall. don't ever blow away-

i lean on you more than you could ever know.

dirt-biking legend

this is history

this is something..

this is something so big,

i can't look at it alone.

life

made me lose my optimism.

couches for toes

i'm gonna walk the same streets tonight,

under all the same lights.

'cause i've been waiting for something-

almost all of my life.

tonight i'll try to try,

and i'll try to stand tall, more than ever before.

i'm gonna try and write your name in the sky,

and if there's room i'll also write mine.

'cause i've been waiting for this-

almost all of my life.

let's cut this talk

of getting out and leaving town-

i know you mean it,

about as much as i meant it when i said

'i'm never going home.'

big talk is the ritual of our daily lives,

but doing big things is behind us-

those days were over before they even started.

but don't tell me, and i wont tell you.

if any of us ever voiced this out loud..

(we like to be let down softly,

and we like sleeping in our own beds.)

so let's cut this talk and go home,

no doubt tomorrow will be the same.

maybe you should know

i write-

because it's far too easy to forget.

did you know, you lose a memory

every time you close your eyes?

i drag my feet-

so look at me please.

'cause someday i'm gonna figure it out.

i want you to write me a book,

full of everything i never knew-

(and all the things you never said)

'cause someday i'm gonna run away.

calvin & hobbes

sometimes i hear you,

creaking besides me-

as i climb the stairs late at night.

but you don't frighten me.

because you always whisper nice things-

in my ear,

as i drift off to sleep.

and every morning i forget that you exist.

i'm sorry.

sometimes i watch you when you sleep

i love you.

you do?

yes. lots.

i think i love you, too.

you think?

i do.

i tried too hard to stop caring

i've been waiting for a week now,

and i'm going to keep waiting for two more-

before i realize that the last thing i said to you,

was good bye.

and it was the only excuse i ever gave you-

that you actually took.

you never said another thing to me

and i've never felt so fucking dumb.

love

is only a personal need.

everyone wants to be happy right?

talk slow

i want to hear every word.

you have me,

rapt and at attention.

because i forgot everything else existed.

you have me, i don't have you.

i think i know what i want.

but by no means do i know what i want.

and sometimes i wish you would let me go.

but you have my hand,

and i don't even have yours.

sometimes i wish you'd let me go,

but in the meantime, just talk slow-

and i'll be happy.

lie to me

i'm on my knees begging.

'i love you'

now make me cry.

(and i gather raindrops,

for when the clouds go extinct.)

please?

emotivational

i could try to tell you why i'm scared.

i could also tell you the truth.

the truth is i don't even know myself,

and i'm even more scared of finding out why.

i was never anything but honest

skylines and telephone poles,

hazy summer days don't change anything.

through that haze,

the same city still lies.

wearily we stumble into the open arms of the world.

arms which welcome us and

simultaneously inspire fear in our hearts,

scared of security, terrified of change.

the people we are cut up and mangled-

forced to mingle with dreams and despair.

the people we are dying to be 

are turned to dust in the stagnant air.

i want to drop my bags

bags and baggage, i refuse to lug my luggage.

just let me curl into sleep.

i want to slide slowly into safety.

but no matter what i wish for,

the wind that carries my eyelashes away,

will never blow me back home.

i will always be a traveller.

flawed

'were too human' i thought-

as you walked away without looking back.

too human to know what's right,

and too human to fix what's wrong

'were too proud' you were thinking,

leaving the room, shutting the door.

too proud to acknowledge the truth,

but mostly too scared to see it in the first place.

'were two humans' i thought

and the most fatal of all our flaws

was expecting too much of ourselves.

you never even looked back.

thanksgiving

the sky is blue, blue like the ocean;

but really the ocean is more green.

the seaweed and low tide grime toss in the surf,

and you can smell the salt, feel it in the breeze.

the sky is turning dark red on the edges

and the clouds are tinged with bloody hues;

that moment of suspended twilight before dusk.

the old beat up jeep is also 'blue'

in reality it is more of a dark navy

with rust creeping around the edges of the doors.

the one that, after crawling along sandy beach roads,

grinds to a stop just below the dunes.

and a man gets out, followed by his dog.

the dog has a brown collar on,

the exact same color as the man's shorts.

his dog runs off, head down, ears back,

in that way that you really appreciate every muscle

and how they contort to propel him with such force,

down the beach, spraying sand in the air.

the seagulls don't take long to admire his speed,

taking flight less gracefully, they squawk,

leaving the dog panting, looking to the sky.

his owner is sitting, his forearms resting on his knees;

'why isn't he at home with his family?' i think

and as he listens to the rush and slow ebb of the waves, 

i hear it too. 'why aren't  at home with mine?'

it's thanksgiving, and no one is on the beach.

the dog ambles back to his owner,

with his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

the man doesn't fly away.

a conversation: probably with a girl

one of your eyelashes was perched precariously,

and i watched it shake and flutter.

one askew hair in an otherwise perfect line.

and i watched your lips, hoping you didn't notice

that i wasn't exactly looking you in the eye.

your mouth twitched, i stopped talking

but you didn't say anything, and we sat there silent.

i was still looking at your lips. i stopped.

looking at my belt, i followed a line in my corduroys

until i lost it in the chaos of wrinkles around my knee.

focusing on an ant next to my thigh, i watched it

and it walked with a perverse sense of direction.

i wondered if it knew it's way home.

rubbing your eyes, you got to your feet.

you walked away, i watched the soles of your shoes,

and on the ground next to me i saw your eyelash.

suddenly i realized i knew every inch of your face.

and the sun was going down, subtly.

there was no splendid sunset, just gradual gray

casting the longest shadows down the sidewalk.