sometimes,
the sun just stands in the senter of the bar
and kooks you up

planes like sharks in the sky

let's hit the road
and hit our heads.
let's train those desert roads
to stay dry
as we rip reality at the seams
and cry
in this language
that doesnt
quite
cut it.

that self cut
brown hair
and those
time worn words
could make this periphery
play with periods,
even if its just for a small while.
i'll find us a place to park
in these monads
and pretend to press
what won't be pressed.

you hair slips easy
through my hands
straight with a hint of wave
you kiss light and easy
like a heart beat
or an engine purr.
what a strange road
these particles of dirt form
what strange places
the monads reveal
a culmination of the past
is it my touch that turns the pages?
well, we turn that world
outside of your room
off.

Temazcal

been a while since a song hit me so hard.

"puttin all my power righteous as a rose.
dynamite the mountain,
now
i'm walkin up the road.
oh, the love we made at gun point
wasn't love at all.
the dancin in the valley,
the moons the mirror ball.
blew open my mind
now
it's an empty room.
swingin in the hammock,
dogs are walkin cross the roof.
i watch you braid your hair,
you're from another time
when the earth wasn't so angry,
and god was on our side.

searchin' west and east
and all points in between and underneath
the lines of fog
you're there and then you're not

the mayans stole tomorrow,
hid it underground.
we've combed with heavy magnets
but still hasn't been found.
oh,
sweatin out my secrets
in the temazcal.
the screamin in the calle,
that a star's about to fall.

lookin through the trees
cities and the seas
things we've seen
are leaves on the lawn
they're there and then they're gone.

searchin' west and east
and all points in between and underneath
the hand of god
you're there and then you're not."

If I breath deep enough
I can feel good as dead.
Get this tension and mud
Turnin to good medicine.
They're stuck in my chest
Anyway, so why not
Look at them clean
From a flattering spot
Where the sun brushes down
And smooths out the ruts
Where my movements get caught
And apathy builds up.
When they get nice and firm
I’ll crush them up nice and small
A pile on my table
That will be all, it will be all.
And I,
I will stay still
Until the desert blows away.

Love is Inquiry

Let's talk about talking.
You see, the thing is, most people are terrible at conversation. they are selfish and masturbatory.
It seems to me that the majority of conversations are in fact are not conversations at all but instead consist of one person refusing to shut his/her mouth about something he/she thinks is worth mentioning and another person listening and rarely speaking. plus, on the rare occasion that the listener gets to open his or her mouth, his/her point is usually lost to an interruption or to a simple "oh yeah, thats cool" before the big mouthed participant continues on whatever he/she feels like.
there are variations of course. one of my least favorites being when someone brings up a topic for discussion and upon finishing their first piece of the thought, ready for some input, the person who is being spoken to says "oh yeah, cool" and instead of inquiring about what the other is talking about, giving their two cents, he/she proceeds to tell some anecdote that might relate in some way to what was initially said but will be a clear case of he/she waiting for his/her turn to talk.

there's a part in Fight Club where edward norton and marla are at a support group and marla mentions that every conversation seems to consist of each person waiting for their turn to talk instead of actually carrying on a conversation

sure. you could claim that this form of exchanging anecdotes, which involves not actually discussing anything that's been said, is a form of conversation, and i would say "yeah you're right. but it fucking blows."

a real conversation involves inquiry. well, i suppose i shouldn't say a "real" conversation. what i mean to say is a conversation that consists of the participants giving a fuck about and/or taking some genuine interest in what the other is saying. the fact is, most people open their mouths to either eat or bless themselves with the sound of their own voice.

i do not understand this. well, okay, sometimes, i have a lot to say, and sometimes i talk longer than i should. i think this is okay for someone to do in intervals. people are allowed to have a mouth/brain full sometimes and having someone to spill it all out too is wonderful.
but even on these rare occasions of mine, i try my damnedest to catch myself and make sure that when the person i'm talking to is talking to show interest. to inquire. to interrogate.
I'm not trying to toot my own horn here, sometimes i'm a jerk, but if there's one thing i always try to do and like to do, its listen. and i'm not the only one. i know a few other people (very few) who like to hear and share instead of just jerk-off. i'll admit that sometimes i am guilty of this jerking-off, but i think that odds are, if you experience this from me, its most likely because you are consistently selfish in conversation, and i'm just returning the favor. it isnt the right way to handle it, i'm sure. but at that point, its nice to have any kind of back and fourth.

look, people want to hear what you have to say. I want to hear what you have to say. you and your thoughts are unique and worth being spoken and being heard(probably). absorbing new ideas is fucking wonderful. the exchange of stories and ideas is one of the greatest human abilities that allows for the most triumphant of triumphs. hearing what others have to say can change worlds.
But you know what? you can listen too. people like it when they feel like their ideas are received and appreciated. even if its to debate what has been said, input people! inquiry! share!

Life is not all about you. Just because you've gotten your fill of the social experience doesnt mean it should be over. This idea of taking what you need from it and leaving is selfish as shit, period. its also masturbatory as i mentioned earlier. yes your voice is wonderful, yes you have great ideas, yes you have a good story, but so do others.

if you want to rant and/or make a point without someone else having some input so you can express your thoughts without having to worry about contributing to someone else's thoughts, write a book, make a blog, write an essay. these are the places this sort of behavior should live. others will probably even have something to say about what you've written. plus, you still dont have to worry about listening to anyone but yourself!

if you're reading this, chances are this pertains to you (not because you subscribe to my blog, but because you're a person).
once again, i'm not tooting my own horn here. i know others who function in conversations like i do, and you know what? everyone likes talking to them. its nice to know that your friends care about you and your thoughts, because, you know, all any one is is a collection of their thoughts and feelings. how dare you treat them as trash. how dare you discard you comrade's self as secondary, as disposable.

the thing is
most of beauty of those pictures you're in
have little to do with the photographer.
the thing is,
there is nothing like
having someone in your room
who you want to kiss but dont.
there is nothing like
having someone in your room
who you kiss but are apathetic towards.
there is nothing like
having someone in your room who you want to kiss and do and like it.

you looked wonderful in that dress
and i kan be a koward.

and you, you looked best with nothing on.
i'd never seen such a body
what a wonderful unwrapping.
those curls in my face
into my blood.
and you looked best when your mouth was open
with words pouring out.
everytime, my god my god.
i would have died to eat you alive.
i treated things like a barbarian,
but there's never been anything i wanted to treat more like paper or a sunrise.

and you, you always looked great,
but i can barely remember those months we spent.
i remember the time,
but slowly, slowly
that is all thats there.
random scenes
conversations.
but i dont remember how you feel
under my finger tips
and i dont remember how it felt
when we watched cartoons on that red couch.
all it does is make me feel bad.
i was rotten.

and now
a vague plethora of underdeveloped,
fresh opportunity.
i dont know much of this.
but i know i will be finding things
in ways that i'm foreign.
i am excited
and apathetic as fuck

you can struggle in the water and be too stubborn to die, or you could just let go and be lifted to the sky.

Existential anguish. Existentialists say we should embrace it. Swallow it. Accept it. For it is the human condition, and as such running from it is futile. To deny it is to be a coward, to not exist. "We must not be cowards!" they scream as they ride onto the battlefield. There is no escape. "THERE IS NO EXIT!" as they stab at faith and hope and rationalists.

And they're right. There is no exit. Every time you're at a bar or on your couch smoking a bowl or playing a video game or singing some song, the anguish is waiting. It is here it is on your shoulders it is breathing down your neck. All around you is uncertainty. It is woven into the air you breath it is in your lungs it is you and it is everything else. How dare you waste your time being meaningless! How dare you pretend you do not exist!
But why do anything? Why is doing something "productive" any better than doing something "lazy"? How do I not be meaningless? I must live in light of my anguish, my despair, my abandonment. i must live my life knowing that tomorrow may never come, knowing that the next five minutes may never come, knowing that my loves could be gone the next time i blink, and never try to escape. Why should i write a book? Who will read it when the world is gone? Will any one read it if the world stays around? Why should i do anything? Why try for futile things?

However. Escape seems necessary to the human being. If everything really is meaningless (which it is) and everything is so heavy with anguish and despair and abandonment, how am i supposed to cope? Why should i want to be alive if existence is such a perpetually painful place? Why should i want to be alive if there is no escape and if trying to escape makes me weak?
I don't know. I don't know.
I do know that if there is no escape other than death, and if suicide makes you weak, then we must embrace the pleasures of this life along with the pain. But this is so hard when it seems like so many of our "pleasures" are nothing but forms of escape. Whenever I get lost in a book or a movie or in writing a song or singing a song or putting together a puzzle, i am getting lost so as to pretend that the pain of the world does not exist. What a pussy I am! or am i?
The obvious conclusion is balance. I must balance my existence with escape, and escape must be in far smaller portions than my existence. It is worth something at this point to mention that "meaning" only exists if an individual gives something subjective meaning, thus if you have logical reasoning as to why your action is meaningful to you (which would involve considering what affect your actions will have on the ever present "other" and what affect it Should have on others), then I think that it can stand as not being a waste of time. But this balance is so hard. Every time i'm at a bar hanging with friends, i could be making a song or writing an essay or writing a story or reading something that will make me smarter. I could be doing something more productive. So so so so so so so many people have so much goddamn talent and capabilities to make beautiful beautiful things, but they waste waste waste time. Sure you'll say "I make a point to balance my work time and play time" But do you? Do you really? Dont you understand that most of the greats busted their balls all day long to create their master pieces? Do you think they went out to the bars or shopped or went to a party 5-6 times a week and called that "balance"? Maybe. Maybe. but i dont think so. i think they busted their fucking asses until a masterpiece was born. Then of course, i reckon you're allowed some extra play time. Some reward time. But where is your master piece? What have you done to make you worthy of your play time? You coward. We are not children any more goddammit. Goddammit.

i am breaking tradition a bit here. a new, big story is a day or two away.

Stories.
Stories are what we have. Almost all we have. So much of life is dedicated to telling someone something about your past. even the simple "whats up?" or "how are you?" to answer these questions we must tell stories.
Not only must we tell stories, we also must hear them. The way we learn is via these tales of lives that are not our own. When you ask for advice or tell your friend about a funny time last night, these are ways that we learn about other people, and thus they are ways that we learn about ourselves. We are nothing without others, remember this. When you tell me about the girl you just fucked or the man you just met or the show you just saw or the book that bruised your brain or the storm last night or how drunk you got a few days ago or how your cat just died or that your dad just lost his job, i am learning. i am soaking it in. i am reasoning. i am saying "yes" "no" "good" "bad". i am learning to make decisions by making decisions.
Storytelling.

Ah dearest Hemingway. I see what you mean.

"What else can we do now? Except roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair well the night's busting open these two lanes will take us anywhere."

Oh my god, what a beautiful day.

Let's sail away.

June 18, 2009 Chicago

1. Beauty Pageant
2. Circus/Cup
3. Song to Pass the TIme

kissing sweet of
dollar giant mcdonalds cokes
and cups of wine
from giant cheap bottles.
kidnapped and restless
in late nights when
the scenery crumbles,
when objects are nothing;
in bright afternoons
that feel like morning.
we are not Tennessee Williams
don't worry baby.

may 27 2009 Republic Coffee

1. Beauty Pageant
2. J D Salinger
3. A Song to Pass the Time

woke up at 9:00 pm. no shower. no practice.

this is for memory, not for acclaim.

the moon may be a sloth
but even sloths make it
to the tops of their trees at some point
if they survive the climb.

these past weeks may
have been finding me
a lost astronaut on that cold, crater covered cast,
holding me in place with orbit
but i knew one day
i would see earth in the full light of the sun.
and these days my skin sizzles like it did
when i was in that cactus land
but the desire to disappear into the dirt has gone.

i'm getting a running start
and leaping into that sweet earth
atmosphere, trying to make it
without turning to ash,
hoping for nothing.
i'll be grateful with either ending.

this maddness
this uncertainty.
"All is well."

Keep the Seat Back

This is the revised version of a story i wrote for klass. i revised it for my finial. it still needs some tune ups, and i think the central konflikt kould be stronger.

“Laura.”
“Frank.”
“This is a high security phone call. Are you in a secure location?”
“Yes,” she said after a few steps worth of a pause.
“Alright, look. I have a mission for you. I’m out in my car, and I have information exclusively for your ears.”
“Is that so? Am I in any danger?”
“You have to accept the mission before I can reveal anything.”
She hung up and stepped out the front door onto Travis’ porch, being careful not to slip on the bits of ice and snow that had collected on the steps as she made her way to the street. Laura peered down the left side of the street, then the right where she spotted Franks silver car, lightly frosted like the rest. She crunched down the sidewalk beneath the soft, orange glow from the streetlights. When she titled her neck to observe them, she stopped, and her focus immediately deviated from the lights to the sky, which was fat with gray clouds like god’s beard, curly and smooth. The wind blew her hair gently; the red strands meandered over her cheeks and lips, tinting them pink. Laura found Frank sitting in the passenger seat of his car wearing a Santa Claus hat. He opened the door, ushered her into his lap, and leaned the seat back, making room for two. Laura noticed the sun roof was cracked open.
“You accepted the mission, fantastic. I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”
“It wasn’t an easy escape. Tell me my mission; I don’t have all night.”
“Ah yes.” With his hand on her thigh, Frank lightly kissed her neck, her cheek, and the tip of her chilly nose. When he brought his head back, smiles rested on both of their faces.
“Sounds risky,” Laura said just before leaning down to kiss him on the mouth. It lasted while their hands tip-toed over hills of jeans and slopes of skin. When it came to its end, Frank rested his head on the seat, and Laura’s rested hers against his shoulders, her hands wound through his hair.
“Looks like the snow might start again,” Laura said with a curl twisted around her finger.
“Twice before January, before the holidays even. It’s a goddamn Christmas miracle.”

Frank pulled two cigarettes from the pack that sat in the driver’s seat. They ashed out the sun roof. As they smoked, Laura remembered her friend Stacy inside, who was mingling with the crowd, drinking beers and imagining what Laura and Frank could be up to. Laura had intentionally ridden with Stacy to make sure spending the night would not be an option. However, she’d also made sure to wear her matching red and green striped underwear that she’d bought just for the occasion. Just in case, she’d told her self when picking them out. Though, the night would find them unseen from the shy volition of both Frank and Laura. On the way to the party, Stacy asked how long Frank was supposed to be gone and if Laura would miss him. To this, Laura grinned and told her that she didn’t know and that she certainly would. They did not call or knock when they arrived, and when they stepped through the door, Frank greeted them and offered Laura a drink, which she declined.

Outside, the night grew colder and the icicles hanging from the car grew thicker.
“So how has it been going in there?” Laura asked Frank. “Do you have any friends left?”
“I do in fact, thanks. Its been going pretty good. You’d be proud. Didn’t you see how many people were in there? Jesus Christ, I didn’t even know half of ‘em, but they were down to wish me a safe trip if it meant some beers. I made sure to point out where, when new people arrived i mean, where my 'exact destination’ is on this map that I had to stand on a goddam chair to reach. It was good.”

Laura laughed and told Frank he was an asshole, to which he responded by sliding his hat on to her head. “I even got Travis to call for me to have a speech. I acted all bashful for a minute while everyone tried to convince me to take the stand. For at least five minutes, those people sat and listened to me lie my soul to hell. Five goddamn minutes. I told them all about my ole brother Ezra and my plans to go to school up there. Told them I might be gone for six months. The whole sha-bang.”
Laura shook her head with a smile. As her head rubbed his shoulder, Frank grazed the palms of her hands with the finger tips of his free hand.
“When to you leave to go back to school?” Frank asked
“Next Friday. Until then, I have about a million family members to see, some of which I’ll venture to east Tennessee to visit, and then Christmas is Thursday.”
“Sounds pretty busy. We should try to squeeze a dinner in sometime if you find the time.”
“I’ll do my best. We’ll see what happens.” She looked up and smiled at him as she said this.
“Should be fine then,” Frank said as he returned her smile with a weak one and looked out the windshield. His eyes found houses lit with Christmas lights, some multi-colored, some white. He watched as some blinked and others merely reclined against the cloudy sky, breathing life into the death of the season. Some chimneys exhaled smoke. He imagined “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem” playing to the scene. He thought of how peacefully lonely each house was, each perfect in its solitude, content with its unique arrangement, refusing to shiver even with snow in their gutters.

“What are you going to do while everyone thinks you’re in Alaska?”
“I’m not sure. I guess I plan to lay low for a couple weeks, maybe hide out at my parent’s house in the country. Its nice out there. They have a couple dogs and some cats, and I like ‘em a whole bunch. I miss having them around. It’d be nice to have one for my place, but I’d feel guilty for locking a pet in an apartment with me and all the commotion and people that come in and out of it. Know what I mean? Its no place for an animal, just no fair.”
“And when you ‘come back’? How do you plan to explain yourself?”
“I rarely feel the need to explain anything I do. When my friends see me, I’ll tell them the truth and hope they’ll laugh with me. My mom thinks I’m going to get beat up. As for the fucks that didn’t show up tonight, I’ll tell them god found me out there, lost in the snow. I’ll say that he told me to go home, that I was needed in Memphis.”

Laura sat with her glance pointed down as Frank spoke, and when he stopped, she giggled and looked him in the eyes. The stare was soft and Frank wound a bit of her hair behind her ear.

Inside, packed bowls were passed around to the various people making seats out of whatever they could, while others wandered in and out of rooms, in and out of conversations, cheap beer in hand. The house was warm with laughter, red cheeks only from booze. Coats and scarves dressed coat racks and backs of seats. The beer Frank bought for the party was long gone, and the rum he’d bought with the intention of sharing with Laura was empty too.

Outside, the air, lightly furnished with the soft glow from the houses and street lights, began to fill with snow. Frank and Laura sat quiet and watched it drift down into the town and stick to the car windows. It came lightly at first, but it tripled not a minute after Laura and Frank’s mouths met again. Bits of snow made its way through the sun roof, and every so often, the electricity traveled from the lights outside through the snow and sparked on their cheeks as they made dancers out of their tongues and tied their legs into knots. The windshield was quickly covered, and Frank pretended they were trapped in cave, snowed in but safe from the outside. The further his imagination went, the deeper he kissed her and the tighter their legs squeezed. Frank imagined the houses outside, filled with families who would wake in the morning to find their yards glowing white beneath the sun and the roads too slick for use. The gray clouds that swam above Laura and Frank during the night would quarantine each house by morning. As their mouths met for the last time, Frank thought of returning the seat to its original way and dreamed of an ice age.

Icy Lake Michigan

Amy,
This city is as windy as the rumors say and just as beautiful. We took the train into town today. It probably took around twenty minutes for us to make it; I imagine it’s nice to always have people with you when going from place to place. It felt nice today anyway. A young boy sat in an aisle seat a couple of rows down and caught eyes with me a time or two. I waved and smiled at him, and he returned the favor. Instead of moving a few seats closer to him to talk, like I wanted to, I worried about his family that rode with him. It seemed like a quick way to start trouble; I imagine this place is full of creeps.
It was a stupid way to think; they wouldn’t have cared, and we would’ve had a nice time.

We wandered the streets all day eating giant pizza, smoking cigarettes, and stopping in bars for beers. I came to this city with my oldest friends, but most of the time I kept my headphones on. The buildings cast the biggest shadows here Amy; it would so easy to disappear. I remembered how you told me you couldn’t wait to move to a big city, this big city. You told me this the first time I asked you to get something to eat.

We walked to the park and saw the icy Lake Michigan where everyone dared me to test the thickness. We all laughed about the idea, but to tell you the truth, I guess I mulled the thought over pretty good. I figured I’d dive in, lose my clothes once I was a bit further out, and let my legs carry me until my friends were gone. No, I wasn’t scared I would freeze to death; I knew the water wouldn’t phase me. Once the coast was clear, I’d get out and go try and find the boy from the train. He’d be walking down the street or something with his sisters and mom, and I’d say, “Hey, didn’t I see you on the train this morning?” He’d smile and tell me I did, and I’d ask his name and tell him mine. I’d ask him if he liked riding the train into the city. I’d give him a high-five goodbye and tell him to take good care of his family. It sounds stupid now that I’ve written it down. I just really wanted him to know how cool I thought he was. My friends had to stop me from jumping in.

We wandered until the moon came around, and when the street lights came on, they left the city in an orange hue. They told me of ghosts; I couldn’t tell if they comforted me or would bring nightmares. Were they local or did they follow me from Memphis? David knew of a party that a friend of his was attending, so when our legs were tired, we gave her a call and headed that way. The night-time buildings brought you to mind. I thought of the architects that dug this place into the dirt. I thought of Roark and Dominique.

Along the way, everyone stopped into a Seven-Eleven for a snack and bathroom break. I bought a donut and waited outside where I watched an old man sitting on some steps. Periodically, he fell into the strangest fits; he’d start mumbling and turning his head back and fourth (like he was saying “no”, but he did it much too quickly for that to be all he meant); his eyes closed, he shook his hands which he held in loose fists. Sometimes he would just shake his head and mumble or only shake his head, but his eyes were never open. I couldn’t tell if it looked more like a song or a ghost in his head. Five or so minutes before the first of my friends came out, he leaned his head on a step and rested. For how long these calm moments last I’m sure is unknowable, but I am glad his waves are not always so rough.

The party sat mid way up a tall building in dark apartment with air thick of smoke and the music loud. Around fifteen people mingled with cheap beer in hand trying to find the beat or a friend. The familiarity almost made me puke. There was no dancing, only sitting and standing; one slept on the couch amongst the commotion. I mostly sat in a semi-centrally located chair and looked out the huge window that graced the apartment’s beaten present. A person or two started conversation with me; one in particular talked to me about my shoes. We had the same brand but different colors. He seemed like a nice guy, but I don’t know anything about that. Time passed, and I found myself standing at the window buried in some thought. The music was so loud Amy. Do people really like yelling at each other? You have to get so close to them to be heard or to hear; those smiles scream phony and their breath of beer. Skin never looked so wrong. What are these people looking for? How many times have I sat with these exact same people saying the exact same things, looking just like I thought they would? The only difference is place. I’m wasting everything. When my head grew too heavy, I decided I’d leave and walk around the city and look for the boy from the train and the old man. I mean I knew I didn’t have a phone number or anything, but my head told me things would figure themselves out. I’d find one then the other, and they’d take me to a safe quiet corner that they knew, and we’d talk with out yelling and the old man would sing us the song in his head. I’d cry as soon as the song started, I knew it. I’d tell them I was sorry for being scared before, and when it was time to go, when the sun was on his way back up and my phone full of worried missed calls, I’d give my new friends all my clothes and all my money. I’d shake their hands and kiss their cheeks before running naked through the streets and swimming Lake Michigan until I could feel the water.

I left silent through the crowd to the door, into the elevator, and into the street. The ghosts were waiting for me there, and I had to walk with my head down to keep my moral up. It didn’t last long, and the buildings looked taller than ever. I stared and watched them being built in reverse until nothing but dirt and materials remained. Time moved forward again, and I imagined the men constructing a building that I’d designed. One I designed for you. I’d say that I hoped you wouldn’t get lonely here and that if you did, you could always come home to Memphis, and I’d always welcome you in. We could kiss the way were supposed to, and when you felt better I’d take you home to the city. You’d ask me to stay; I’d tell you I had to leave, but I would stay anyway.
Your friend,
Frank

overton park

(I decided that this blog didnt make me mad, so i'm re-posting it.)

I've got my shorts on again, and a girl on my mind. Sounds like trouble koming soon, but i hope its just a new coming moon. There's a little boy flying a big kite and his older brother is teaching him how to keep what he loves a float. Me and my old love, we used to come here to rest. I'd bring some old book, and she'd bring her camera; she'd tell me i was the sun king.

There's a man and his baby who hasn't been with us for too long, but he walks alright and his dad hugs and kisses him all the time. The boy wanders and watches the world that he sees. The dogs and the kite and the families playing frisbee. They stop him in his traks, everything catches his eye; everything is new: the girls on their bikes, the guy drinking his beer. He wants to meet everything. I hope it never changes.

There are so many planes in the sky, and so many sweethearts in the grass. They fly kites, they kiss, I imagine them remembering when they were young. When their kites crash, they do not remember piking up and going home; they don't think about their love running away. Their minds only wonder when their mouths will meet again, when they can feel warm. They imagine sliding rings onto each other's fingers and realizing they won't ever have to be alone. This love is more important to them than the crashing and burning of the world around them; it's more important than the passengers aboard all those planes looking for any way to get away, to find something new.

The kiss they've felt a million times, the body they know by heart, these are the only tastes they need. Everything else is a waste, everything else is a dandelion wish in the wind. These lovers are jazz songs. The same series of notes playing forever, but always mutating, always striving to play new melodies and new songs, new records. I hope they never feel otherwise.

The sky is still blue, but the moon is already in position. It watches us dance and sing and scream and cry. It watches the kites that crash and the moments when they soar; it watches as it itself changes, meandering down its orbit, putting on a new dress.

There are so many planes in the sky. There have been so many days lately that i've wished myself to be a passenger on any of them headed anywhere, but today and for the past few days, Memphis has felt like a home as good as any. My heart isn't quite at rest, but it is moving the right way. When i talk with my friends, when the snow came, when i played stupid songs with and in front of my favorite friends: the spaces started to disappear. There is a girl with hair like the sun and eyes like what they used to say of the color of the gods. She speaks in ways that smooth the wind through my hair. One day we will be barefoot here, and this blanket will have more than a couple of books and a beer and a boy skribbling away. Things will be easy.

or so i remember

How old am i?
there is a difference between age and experience; you kan have one without the other. duh right? right.
right.

today the wind was wonderful and my friends were there as the paths in the woods kept bringing us to pavement. we pretended we were pirates and the world disappeared. i forgot that i had not lived with them in the wilderness my whole life, but then i thought "well, maybe i have" but i havent, but maybe.
last night, travis and i found the wind, sitting on his porch swing. he drank a 40 and i was nervous, though it had nothing to do with the beer. it was the first time in a long time that we'd traded stories. its been a nice change of pace seeing him more often again. i bet he wrote that song about me too, unfortunatley. travis keeps his hair short these days. he's so strange. always changing everything.
today, shawn kame over, and somehow we met with travis at the park. shawn and i had bbq sandwiches, mine was perfekt (i think shawn liked his too). i was still up tight, though it had nothing to do with the night before. he asked me what it means to be nothing without others. i loaned him a book. shawn and i see eye to eye a lot. unless it has to do with our favorite and least favorite songs on cds, bekause usually we are opposites; though, we agree on the spaces inbetween. which, if you know much about my head lately (which you almost certainly do not) then you know that the inbetweens are what i'm looking for.

anything above that you think says "gay" is not.
jerk

i kept thinking it is time for a new moon. in fact, i got to thinking about it so much, that i was sure of it. konvinsed. this is when i started throwing "hope" into my logik. this is not the way to go. the moon is still crescent, and it takes longer to make a pass than i remembered. but thats how it always goes, or so i remember.

How Bout These Shits

so i have kreated a blog despite my extreme hesitation. i have a habit of being revealing when i do journal type things, and i have no desire to have other folks reading all the krazy ways i'm feeling, however, there are times when i do not feel this way, and i embarrass myself. So i have desided to have the primary fokus of this journal to be an out put for my stories or poems or whatnot. Things in that vein. i like to write a bunch, and i like for people to look at what i write and tell me if its good or bad or take something from it or hate it or whatever it is that people think. this way i can do both, and being that i will be assuming that my friends read this thing sometimes, i will be enkouraged to work a bit harder on them. i know that's not really the right mentality for an aspiring writer, but that's what i've got going on. my fiction class at school is very amateur, and i'm always lazy with assignments as a result. maybe this will tighten my belt. maybe.

this also means that there will be times in whikh my postings will resemble journal entries, and it will be important to keep in mind that the events will kontain or will entirely be fiktion. or don't keep it in mind. maybe i'm lying. maybe they'll be totally honest. maybe.

i believe the first story i'll be posting will be one that i just turned in for klass that i happened to dig. i will edit it first of course. i kan't remember what i desided to title it. oh yes, Rocket Rides. I dont really like that title anymore, so i'll khange it by its posting