re-reading what those kids wrote is dangerous after all these years. — january 20, 2011
nobody hangs out in numbers. the cops told us it wasn’t safe, unbecoming of fine young men and women. it was only a phase.
no, it was going against god.
no, it was the part in our lives that everything vibrated in harmony.
no. it doesn’t feel like anything unless the air smells like resin and everyone’s gathered around.
nobody writes anymore. we have to get out, we have to run and unplug, if only for a short time. i will lay in a pair of arms in the back of my van while someone else drives, for once. with the bed pushed back from its disguise as a bench seat, we can see the tops of the trees, and the tempo is tapping by the streetlights spaced just so. there is something amazing coming out of those speakers.
wish, my good friend, that when we drive past that haunted flashing light at the edge of the swamp, that our old loves and family will appear out of the fog and into the empty seats, laughing like we never missed a moment. imagine that image cueing the ending credits, the bitter-pithy happy ending when you finally get to smile after being kicked for its entirety.
nobody has the time to imagine.
now i’m looking for a brand new song that can make me nostalgic. i am perusing my unmanageable music collection of 66 hundred thousand songs that just aren’t what i’m looking for at the moment. paralyzed by choice.
i turn to something old, a reliable friend. i am a visitor here; i am not permanent.the land of sunny skies disguised as paradise is a lie.i lie for only you. hallelujah.
irrational fear
i’m terrified
of the possibilities
what if
i’ve already had a lifetime
of white light love
with the perfect girl
and that life
it was snared
and corralled entirely
in my many growing gaps of memory
that i’ll never remember
she’s caught past the point of no return
on weekend nights
and indistinguishable in the fog
and only in the most very vivid dreams
is she there
with her rearranging face
and aura of ghosts
an hour long relapse
the days and the years keep on truckin’, pressing harder on the gas as they gain confidence.
i have too many questions and not enough answers, not enough time, not enough half-remembered proclamations of love. not enough memories of the helpless look of pity you give me when i tell you that it will never be over. the amnesiac lovers, hand in hand, climbing their way out of hell. forgetting the places where they trip and drag each other back down. i say that if i don’t have this story, then i have nothing. i am nothing. i am only pretending to play along with the seasons of settling cynicism, and the taste it leaves in my mouth is like burnt plastic, acrid and inorganic. not the way it is supposed to be.
apt. 203
if we grow up, if we evolve at all, what we don’t realize is that we’ve simply put on our own theatrical version of the history of human civilization.
gang rivalry
all we had to do was drive through the woods. sam was looking for a party, and we just had to listen for bass. we kept searching back and forth across the same wooden bridges and icy lampposts.
i want amsterdam.
tonight i met a girl who acts just like you
who flashed me and asked me about mental walls and self-realization
and when i brought up your name
she said you seemed cold and self-obsessed
in the nicest way possible
which is, of course
just like you
you hippie girls sure carry a lot of hate
along with that “free love”
don’t you?
and even though i should have been incredibly annoyed
by this burned-out waif
i could see that she was probably pretty amazing
when she had her wits about her
whenever the last time that was
just like you
today was nice
for all the wrong reasons
and my life is cracking up
but in non-violent, easy to swallow pill form.
dreams of mornings off. — december 4th, 2009
warm skin on skin makes us sweat while we’re nodding off.
we fall asleep slow, trying to beat the morning.
sleep around the bedspread, pull off the sheets while you survive your dreams.
wake up…we slept too late.
mumble something grumpy and faraway.
the sun’s already broken past the curtains, and it’s creeping towards us.
it’s already past nine and you’ve got things to do.
but it’s so hard to leave the bed. that afterglow hasn’t gone yet.
ease your way in/out.
put that sunny morning music on and let the light clamber in.
bedrooms/orange
i’m still here
underneath the strings of stars
up there in the milky folded fabric
above the walls and walls of records
and paintings of the coast
i’m still here
typing just to hear the sound
of my fingers punctuating the turntable
and if nobody reads
at least i can get the sounds out
except the silent missing ‘j’ key
lost somewhere behind the bookshelf
i’m here
to put you to legend with my voice
to make you come alive with my hands
to speak, to learn, to smoke and drink and spill
to play guitar and learn your favorite songs
to build us a room where we can be
the radiant souls we know we’re meant to be
the flood/coming undone
it’s that ancient love
that you won’t outgrow
the walls are singing, and that was before susie handed me a little yellow pill with a grin. i’d already snuck through all the rooms in that house, curious, even checking the medicine cabinet, but someone either thought ahead or beat me to it. empty.
anything that doesn’t drive her away. — july 20, 2011
sam switches the song, and the sound of autumn comes and clocks me.
