how dramatic

i've come to realize, albeit without remorse, that i have lost some freedom to write whatever i desire for fear of certain emotional vulnerabilities. this is a loss of anonymity and an alter-ego that was originally known to only a select few. in recent weeks i have written many pages of words (on the backs of novels and napkins and such) which will never end up here due to this realization, despite the pride i take in their sincerity and their (supposed) poeticness. the awareness of all this came in the basement of limieght after receiving a text message about the death of a friend overseas, in december, but unknown to me until that night. i wanted to express so many things but did not know how. i started this project at a point in my life which harboured much security and stability. this time has now passed, and although i have grown accustom and found inspiration in this new and unanchored chapter i have become aware of how my words may be received and reflected back upon myself in day to day life. i love skateboarding, and find therapy in the simplicity of skating down an empty street, but i can assure you your grandmother can skate with more skill then me, and all my favorite authors and silver screen heroes have died due to heartache, alcoholism, and car accidents which reflects poorly on my taste in father figures and whatever. my writing process is fairly simple, too many cigarettes, too many beers in the faint hours of early morning (which seemed to lack reality and structure), with an old war movie on mute of course, currently bridge on the river kwai. alec guinness walks with a limp which reflects mine during those absurdly cold january mornings, attributed to a certain motorcycle that i lack courage to ride again (another metaphor perhaps). only about twenty five percent of these writings make it on here, and unfortunately they tend to be the weaker of the bunch. i fear making the same mistakes in terms of my choice in women, i fear my lack of confidence in myself and who i am, and i fear an unknown future which once belonged to a military life, then to a girl, and now to nothing. nevertheless i will not stop writing if you continue to read, but from this point on these words are fiction and not fact, and never think otherwise.

i have nothing to say. maybe in spring.  

i see you on the bus, from time to time, and imagine what your cocaine lips might taste like and i wonder how the paleness of your skin can be weaved into some shitty poetry or verse as a metaphor for how whatever drug you used most often is the equivalent of you to me (i also wonder if this makes me a creep) and i like you 'cause your fucked up in all the ways i'm not.
ilk is killing it these days. he gets me stoked on spring!

i took a taxi to the u-haul parking lot and it was seven a.m. and my head still hurt; i hadn't told my parents yet. "oh you want the fourteen footer" she said "it'll do just fine, it won't give you any trouble". the truck was loaded but it took forever and it was getting dark. i hadn't eaten all day. the fast food tasted like paper and the pop was too sweet and i couldn't go home (where was it now anyways?). the air conditioners broken and its hot as hell out, it was august. driving down portage put the low sitting sun in plain view, it was warm which made the world smell like hot pavement and the am/fm was playing neil young. i was driving west as far as whenever for no particular reason. the cab of the truck seemed as good a place as any but the fifteen of lucky made it pitiful. i took a left on westwood drive and the motel was clean and safe and the freshly made bed reminded me of new york, the way they tuck the sheets in i guess, and it made me cry. the hot and cold taps in the shower were reversed and i couldn't find my fucking toothbrush but at least the television worked. it flickered coloured shadows on the walls and the c.b.c. was playing rio lobo. john wayne's grit gave me some brief solace and stability which did not last. i ran out of cigarettes but didn't drink all the beer although i probably should have. i woke up in the morning and it was seven a.m. and my head still hurt, i reached for you in the blankets (you were not there).

sleep over comics

if time would only separate and travel forward instead of overlaying itself and presenting memory and reality as one.
i miss the spring and the summer and such.

                    "why do you always hum yourself to sleep?"

"because i can't sleep with too much silence. i feel i can never trust what happens after it"

          "well it's very pretty. you're very pretty."

our clothes are caskets which fade overtime and such are the small reminders which make up kingdoms that you've shattered. one day they'll give out medals for our modern love. pinned on our chests like soldiers home from wars. i'll see how you survived someones infidelity (but mostly how it nearly killed you) and we can skip the nights spent learning why we're both so fucked up because we'll wear the scars like boy scout's badges. nighttimes will be better spent memorizing your elegant frame rather then its hearts disrepair because i can tell you wandered out of some novel and i'm always hoping to understand what made you real. theres that streetlight in the park where richardsons manor used to be (it burnt down quite some time ago, but you can still find spoons and forks in the grass). the light flickers orange in the summer and we've sat beneath it late at night to hear the ghosts. the soft buzz and glow always made you tired and you'd hum yourself to sleep. but all at once i became awake and felt like i belonged to the land and earth and trees and you. i plucked leaves out of your hair and this is the moon's light but your changing its colour. 

i'm in love with the memory of you and no one else. 

i  pay  my  tuition  fees  so  i  can  sit  next  to  you  in  class.
i am aesthetically pleased.

are you awake?