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.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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