stick to your guns

crumbs

2012-02-08T00:46:00.000-06:00

i'm a softened agnostic with no firm belief in anything much 'after'. is this why time weighs so heavy in my pockets like a dozen grandfather clocks? but my mind is always ever so lighthearted as it lays with yours and i'm sorry i can be so headstrong. my thoughts will burn your shadow in these bed sheets like the hiroshima blast in a macabre memory of everything lovely. i will go back to them from time to time like those little white shacks built for irishmen lost at sea, stocked with crackers and water, to feed until found again.

rainy days and morrissey

2012-01-27T00:39:00.000-06:00

some things i like: the smell of home depot and the free popcorn at the door, the warmth of linoleum tabletops in sunny prairie restaurants, paint samples with curious names like 'tea leaf green' or 'crocodile tear' that brings to mind victorian explorers slipping through far off jungles (for the glory of the commonwealth of course) and when pretty girls lend you books and you turn each page searching for the press of their finger tips. did you know our brain fires neurons that are used specifically to help us find each others lips in the dark? not much to do about anything but it's a pretty thought. i often read my own run-on-sentences trying to hear them in your voice and i hope you wonder if they're all about you.

on a thousand museum shelves.

2012-01-26T19:21:00.001-06:00

i think you were forged in an explosion, which melted your chromosomes seamlessly into skin, and you were always ever so clever at saying pretty things at odd times. they tore down that old building we used to play in, can you fucking believe that? your mother would always whisper "such a shame" like someones grandfather just died and it's obvious now she was speaking of the memories rather than the mortar. we sat so close and drank milk and ate blueberries and kicked at broken glass and i never really knew what to do with my hands when i sat with your parents; strangled by a tie much too tight. we looked good dressed up (whenever it was we had to be) but even in heels and high-waisted skirts you would rather be beneath the railroad bridge throwing stones at passing trains. you dipped toes into the muddy creeks near my parents house, carefully choosing words to repeat until they lost their meanings, and i'd sit and wonder who assembled your little frame, who's god decided your tiny measurements? and if heaven was a record i'd drop the needle right there on that very moment and repeat repeat repeat. that night we held each others hands and spilt sugar into cheap gas-station coffees and your cheeks blushed with every sip and it was all so bloody perfect.

2011-12-29T16:12:00.000-06:00

when you've lived so long under the flight paths you cease to hear their sounds. we're two train wrecks on endless tracks with ashtrays at an elbows length and your smile is a cancer which kills my commonsense. so darling, do me some damage, let your blue veins show beneath our winter layers (your bedtime warmth is an extra coat) and speak softly crumbling consonants of adventures we'll run to; eventually. and our winter is a series of complicated rearrangements like an adornment of dates on a dusty textbook timeline.

a murmuration of starlings

2011-11-06T01:38:00.000-05:00

you ask the sky but the moon whispers "i do not know, don't ask me" so we decided kissing was the best route to take; i ditched my friends in a warm bar two neighborhoods down. a little riverbank too late at night, in weather much too cold for our skinny limbs, continues its business preparing for winter (nevertheless of us) but autumn is not over yet. you blink and ask questions concerning the phosphene, those dancing shapes of light we see when we close our eyes. i give it a name but you prefer the millisecond memory of the tealights in the grass or perhaps the ghosts of previous lovers from before the great war dancing on your eyelids. are we lovers? is that the word for this? we share first-hand accounts of poetry by Poe and whisper the improbable case of our fragile and imperfect human connection. "oh" you hum quietly (of course) "to rebuild happiness from nothing is such an odd thing." and i suppose it is. "who do you think of when you're with me?" you ask. "well, who do you think of when you're with me?" i reply and we will probably never know where we're at on the subject. i spell words on your palms that could suffocate the heat from a room and writing a thing on your beauty would be a loss as i think i lack the words. your heart beat quickens to the rush of a bloody emergency ward and we should be in love but we won't allow it and that's just fine. we saw the first snow of the year tonight, although i think we were the only ones.

2011-10-26T22:52:00.000-05:00

stranger
meet
like
like more
time
friends
like
touch
lust
like
time
touch
kiss
like more
lust
kiss
sex
trust
like more
sex
love
sex
trust
time
fear
like
sex
lust
love
pain
fear
love
kiss
loss
time
love
time
resentment
love
loss
hate
love
time
ambivalence
time
loss
time
stranger.

2011-10-23T00:02:00.002-05:00

i have these four paper lanterns which glow in the corners of my room. well, two are lit (two don't technically belong to me) and by saying they are "lit" i'm actually disguising the little glow and buzz of a tiny bulb, which is powered by acid and chemistry of some sort, into something romantic in notion. we feel each other up like a couple of teenagers enjoying a blank slate, and we've ignored our friends for at least two weeks. you kiss my neck and we fuck like we want to be in love but we aren't and that's the beauty. this way no one else can make a mess of this because this something we have have is nothing at all. i have four cigarettes left but its raining out and my windows face east in such a way that the rain still creeps in with a tap tap tap against the open window's screen. so we bite lips and high five between rounds of guitar hero, you explain the origins of blue eyed brunettes, and we share information on the geography of cool spots beneath the sheets; your body burns like a thrift store space heater. i repeat small words while writing to add emphasis, perhaps i repeat mistakes as well.... as if to add emphasis (you are not one of them).

following some glow like a lit lantern

2011-10-17T02:14:00.002-05:00

what's the sight or sound of a feeling? does it show itself the way purples and reds rise up through bruised skin. is there a name for that burning pulse you get when you have realized that someone woke up next to you, day after day, and slowly realized they no longer had any desire to love you, maybe even a diagnoses and cure for it perhaps? can we tie a tourniquet around it to stop the bleeding, or will there always be a drip drip drip of those bloody memories ever so small. has no yale graduate written this into medical text books yet? studied the equations and chemicals or at least etched some fucking riddle on a bathroom wall? i've got a needle and thread but there isn't any tear to sew up and i've mapped your skin as we stood in the shower those two or three times (we've only just met in that way) but i can't ever find that gunshot size wound that turned the rhythmic thump and firefly glow of your chest which i remembered from years ago, into a spot solid as an oak; with limbs of an elm. laying on my back you trace pictures between my new scars that dot across my stomach and laying with my head on yours i can hear the crack and moan of your heart strings, like branches in the wind, wrapped tight around your lungs that just need to fucking breathe, but they wont ever let the air in, and they won't let me in either. but that's okay, i think it's okay. we'll hide in bed and drink tea and talk modernist artist shit like it never went out of style, and we'll be our own moody and brooding solutions for each other, for now anyway. i have every intentions of kissing you to sleep tonight because, well, what else is there... what else is there that i would ever possibly want to do?

broke down tries of lesser than

2011-09-29T12:36:00.002-05:00

you cry a bucket of grey skies filling my heart like kansas state torrential rains. you downpour tears while we pour down bottles of ninety-nine percent proof, howling at the moon and its fucked how fast eleven at night can turn into regrets at noon. you're a fucking fake, we're all fucking fake because we avoid the mutter of real names, realness reminds us of bullshit we hate. her strawberry hair wraps around the nothings in the wind like fresh bed sheets on the clothes line in this growing storm. beat back by a breeze brought on by darkening clouds the woven cotton dances away its memories of sex and love and all that we hold dear and the cold makes us shudder and we run to close these shutters. but its too late and the staircases and hallways and closets of your rib cage hollow out their insides and you spill your guts like furniture and picture frames on boulevards after hurricanes. you'll pick through your wreckage, stacking timbers next to tear drops, hoping no one saw too much beneath that crumbled facade. and i'd help out but i'm all out of smokes and got tired of hiding behind those bricks and mortar ages ago.

what if i knew you when we were younger

2011-09-24T03:12:00.002-05:00

for the shipwrecked sailor you are a heart that is an anchor. a worthy tie down in a storm that is never ending (but with a hope that you are, perhaps, its ending). you are a house set on fire, a heart ready to burst. something which has no right in happening but an anomaly which has burnt down these insides. you expect more but with so much distance i just knock on the nearest door. some small talk about the weather, or whether or not i would rather you among her, this, that, or something more. and at arms length we try to share a heart beat, and you claim you grew up swallowing handfuls of emptiness, but whats worse is i grab some type of bullshit closeness to fill these gaps. well i have what i remember, and that's more than most.

ionization glow surrounds

2011-09-20T23:54:00.000-05:00

"to fall from a window is terrifying,
but to fall to the rocks,
to the sea,
is a poem."

a moment so short it was like a still frame in a three hour film, but this is no movie. your lipstick could have burned it's shape through skin, left behind on my bones for an anthropologist to tinker with, musing about their meanings. i fixed your jacket hood, as it was crooked and out of place, it meant i fucking like you (or maybe like, i wanna fuck you), although both of us were too drunk to notice it at the time. the weather conditions proved foul that night which made dismissing the closeness of our hands as we walked home quite easy, perhaps it was just for the sake of warmth. inside between cigarettes you tucked your toes up under my thigh, but maybe the room was just cold as well, you see it was still spring and i had left the window open. but we stood belly to belly and were able to trap some heat between ourselves, between my chest and your fragrance (i caught a hint of it at a party recently, it was not you). with this warmth we could have grown an elephant from an apple seed. and like a shitty self help book i will always remember that we are the architects of our own something er other or however it goes and no kiss was wasted.

sleepy hallow

2011-09-16T23:47:00.000-05:00

we are the yellow and brown leaves lying near the riverbank, just beyond my windowsill and hiding from sight. we catch the rain drops like little earthy tea cups, but that's just shitty imagery, it's much prettier when you catch the drops on your cheeks. i caught a fever once, it stuck me between reality and nowhere in particular, it destroyed my blood and chest and lips and left me dead for days, yellowing bones and a teetering stone grave. i remembered that night i let out a sigh and watched as it left through your lungs (more shitty imagery, this one of a kiss) and it was the prettiest damn thing i had ever heard, or felt, as your chest rose up just slightly and pressed against my palm. i'll tip toe my fingertips around your hips as the walls creak in the october wind. we jump back into bed, it's too cold to leave (leaf). our autumn will be made up of attics and blankets and tea and probably mittens, and costumes and stories of ghouls and ghosts and Ichabod Crane of course. but like those leaves, we fell to early, and would never last the season.

mountain goats, fault lines

2011-09-15T14:45:00.001-05:00

down here where the heat's so fine
i'll drink to your health and you'll drink to mine
as we try to make the money we scored out in vegas hold out for a while
we drink vodka from russia, get our chocolate from belgium
we have our strawberries flown in from england
but none of the money we spend
seems to do us much good in the end
i got a cracked engine block, both of us do.

got a house, the jewels, the italian race car
they don't make us feel better about who we are
i got termites in the framework, and so do you.

down here where the watermelon grows so sweet
where i worship the ground underneath your feet
we are experts in the art of frivolous spending
it's gone on like this for years i guess
and we're drunk all the time, and our lives are a mess
and the deathless love we swore to protect with our bodies
is stumbling across its bleak ending
but none of the rage in our eyes
seems to finish it off where it lies
i got sugar in the fuel lines, both of us do.

and the fights, and the lies that we both love to tell
fail to send our love to its reward down in hell
i got pudding for a backbone, but so do you.

cold and ache

2011-09-14T23:53:00.000-05:00

"lemons are forever as blue skies never change" or so is written on the bathroom walls in this wolseley bar, next to floyd's drawings of ten toes and my sharpie of a woman's shape. and, well, i wish i were the one but sure as shit i'm not (again and again) but it was a worthy chance taking. and i'll miss you seeing as i've let the dream go, but a chilled heart never warms up to such an empty bed, no matter the blankets and no matter the afterthoughts. will i be the man i wanna see at an age much older than twenty two, or three? or will i just be stuck in another place i don't wanna be, absent from the you's and me's. i don't think i will ever get it right, i don't wanna be free, i want to be a part of you and if you'd like you can be part of me. but i will always chose the wrongs and will have to start again. i'm more or less alive but neither makes me feel any more than just fine, and i'm made up of things that stop me from believing in anything (religion is shit and politics are useless) but i believe in the everything which is you. i believe in you. probably cause i like you. i definitely like you.

2011-08-28T19:15:00.001-05:00

these houses are our tiny mansions, and we're framed behind their wrought iron fences. this mind is full of poetry but with nothing to write. i had an archived message of your voice across some ancient telephone wires "i'll be home soon" you'd say over and over without ever a change, even now when you're far from the same. when i erased it, where did it take your voice i wonder? can something just vanish forever, so quickly with such permanency? could i ever go find it, that small bit of you. find it between books on the library shelf, or maybe it's been buried in the dirt behind the lilacs out back, or embedded in the concrete and brick of our old school perhaps. maybe it's so far away that i would forget what i was searching for if ever i found it. wait, have i forgotten what i was searching for? what did i ever want to find, i am unsure.

2011-08-11T01:48:00.005-05:00

i always slept through church. long before the autumn leaves lay on the street like little copper pennies across our bedroom floor. bar change which clattered in the rush to be naked to the bones. if i don't believe in the afterlife, can i still come with you whenever it is you go? i remember smoking cigarettes in junior high by the river. i used to kiss this girl between drags but i always waited for her to ask (i always wait) and i must admit i'm lost in the open sea as of late. when you stay the night i rarely sleep 'cause i would never waste my arms around you with all that dreamin' of nothingness when there was something so close. i've always been that one percent but i would give you my one hundred, and when these chemicals subside that heart still aches just the same. what the fuck was she drinkin' that first night she was untrue, i guess we were young but fought problems which were much too serious, all i wanted was for us to be ourselves. and as quickly as it ended you stole that heart from underneath my nose. but its okay, i don't mind that you don't know as long as your lungs are close enough to inhale my thoughts which pump the blood that your heart so closely holds.

2011-07-30T03:01:00.000-05:00

i suspect this is over, there isn't a thing worth writing, not any longer.

2011-07-11T00:01:00.000-05:00

i don't write on here as often as i used to but haven't you heard i'm in a mother fuckin rap crew, we have shows and shit but our shows are shit (except their not) and writing decent raps to spit on the stage is harder for me then writing this silly poetry. i could just write what you're used to hearing, how if i were dead and dust, six feet under and the soles of your shoes walked above me my heart would still beat that dust like the blood never stopped because a real kiss quickens that beat beat beat past one hundred times a minute, but oh well. when a muse is found the writing will quicken just the same.

crippled bastards and broken things

2011-06-23T01:54:00.000-05:00

your eyes hold my reflection like a mirror in its frame, and. i was going somewhere with this but i have nothing to say. i just want to rant about the way things used to be and the way things could have been. how i hate coming home to an empty bed and how i love waking up with you in it (you are not her, and that's the blessing). these nights are in between their endings and we're driving past esso's thinking of stars, knowing someone filled our hearts with nothin' but your skin between my scars seems to have brought us something. and i'm swimming in the thoughts of you, between paragraphs of novels when the mind wanders beyond the windowsills, feeling lost like a child in a whale's veins, with the heart the size of a house and blood which bleeds gallons. but it's better to be inside the flesh which holds your tumultuous warmth then in the frigid waters like a drowning sailor clinging to timbers (the timbers are metaphors for whatever). and we're all just pennies tossed away like tiny burdens, and they pick us up for little wishes until the next change of heart.

2011-06-09T11:44:00.001-05:00

i fucking hate the way you smile and i fucking hate the way you ride your bike and i think your tattoos are dumb. i hate the way you spread the honey on your still warm toast and it breaks apart and mooshes up every time and how it doesn't seem to bother you. i hate the way you grin after shots of gin like its freshly squeezed orange juice and i hate the way you move your hips from left to right and back again when you slip your t-shirt off over your head. i hate the smell of an unfamiliar airport terminal when you're holding my hand and i hate when you hold mine during your nightmares. i hate how you shoot a pellet gun better than a boy and i hate the way it makes you giggle. i hate how you collect dandelions for wine and i hate the way your bum looks in your favorite pair of jeans. i hate how i'm full of shit because i think you're fucking lovely.

2011-05-25T01:27:00.001-05:00

i can see our bicycles chained up outside together, links twisted around bars and keys left in the grass with a forgetful rush that seems reminiscent of high school sex at three in the morning. that old gas lamp post which hides on my street under those wolseley trees warms their frames as we warm ours and i think that we may both pray for closeness but i could never ask and you would never demand it, although i wish you would and perhaps you wish i could, but i simply couldn't. i saw your shoes resting on top of mine just barely but barely was enough to make me sigh, and i wonder what your thoughts are made of between sips of beer that taste like wine when your lips smile at mine from across the table. fog and history and rain in the mornings, french subtitled films in the afternoons and thunder at night and i love the way you dance. and it's odd that i can think of you after missing someone else for so long (well that was a lot of drinking). but i don't know you and wouldn't claim to, and i can't say more than a hello before time stops and i wish we could spend it sleeping close close close. i'll drink heatburnin cups of late night regrets because the day i saw you walking up those stairs, when he said 'oh you'll like her she smiles like the sun and talks with a bit of a whisper' is a day i knew i'd never ever have that courage to say anything more than a hi and goodbye to you.

2011-05-09T23:34:00.004-05:00

the sun will shine each and every morning for you and you will feel stronger than each and every day before, and this i promise you. my lungs have gradually blackened and have begun to ache but they reflect that missing link, and i don't mind if you don't mind. i remember being younger, sitting at those booth seats in restaurants early in the morning, just outside of town, and the sun warmed the linoleum table tops and the heat would balance on my cheeks and palms and fingertips and the waitress was always very young and pretty. our clothes held the prairie air closer to our skin and the ketchup tasted just a little better and the soda pop seemed more bubbly and sweet. we whispered conversations between sips of lemonaid and you would think that a feeling so perfect can only be so specific but my limbs between your limbs feels oh so very much the same. her bed while we were teenagers holds little truth any longer and i enjoy hating all the things that her and i had loved together, but your bed is a reminder that bitterness is a passing feeling that deserves little nurturing, and your heart which pumps the blood that blushes your cheeks and heats your belly which warms your spin makes all those shit faced lonely nights a worthy battle.

2011-04-22T11:11:00.006-05:00

i like the the colour of raspberries on white kitchen counter tops. or the inside of orange peels, left discarded on those green picnic tables in june. i find something curious about women smoking cigarettes on film and this acts inability to transfer its attractiveness over into reality. there are so many more things i'd wish to tell you, like how she wrote that note which i found in our sheets, she said it was for me but i knew it was not and all these kids bitch and moan about being alone, but what's worse is trusting someone else with your happiness. i have not fallin' asleep sober in seven months (it washes away those dreams that used to keep me up) but that is not to say i am unhappy, i just refuse to give up these wonderfully calm nights to those empty meaningless memories. but your heart is a million times safer to hide these thoughts than hers ever was, and a beauty which she had lost long ago holds itself in you tenfold. you remain to remind.

this man.

2011-04-11T01:46:00.002-05:00

he was growing into middle age, and was living then in a bungalow on woodland avenue. he installed himself in a rocking chair and smoked a cigar down in the evenings as his wife wiped her pink hands on an apron and reported happily on their two children. his children knew his legs and the sting of his beard against their cheeks. they didn't know how their father made his living, or why they so often moved. they didn't even know their fathers name. he was listed in the city directory as thomas howard and went everywhere unrecognized, lunching with kansas city shopkeepers and merchants, calling himself a cattlemen or a commodities investor. someone rich and leisured with the common touch. he had two incompletely healed bullet holes in his chest and another in his thigh. he was missing the nub of his left middle finger, and was cautious lest that mutilation be seen. he also had a condition that was referred to as granulated eyelids, and it caused him to blink more than usual, as if he found creation slightly more than he could accept. rooms seemed hotter when he was in them, rains fell straighter, clocks slowed, and sounds were amplified. he considered himself a southern loyalist and guerrilla in a civil war that never ended. he regretted neither his robberies nor the seventeen murders he lay claim two. he had seen another summer under in kansas city, missouri, and on april third, in the year 1882 he was thirty four years old. after eating breakfast, he, along with his companion bob ford, prepared to depart for a robbery. they went in and out of the home preparing their horses, dodging his gleeful children who were lost in games under the warm morning sun. he removed his coat as the day grew hotter, and unbuckled his gun belt, lest the firearms made him appear suspicious. before leaving he glimpsed a dusty picture on their living room wall, he stood on a chair to reach the portrait, and bob ford fired one final shot into the body of jesse james entering the back of his head and killing him instantly.

2011-04-07T14:16:00.002-05:00

i tap my fingertips against the wall which shelters my little world inside my apartment and think of things to write about. what the fuck do i know, what the fuck do you want to hear from me? do you want me to tell you that i'd go sober for you, because i swear i would. i wouldn't touch a drop (nor would i want to) and we could work on the nicotine addiction. but maybe i just miss when we were kids and kisses on the cheeks was all we needed to show each other our i love you's, when we dreamed up stories in our heads and bought cheap candy and pop, lost in those late weekday nights in the summertime. before these clothes became our caskets and all the kids switched to cocaine, because whiskey never mended our minds. i remember when your lips tasted like cherry chapstick and vanilla ice cream, before we melted them into cheap wine and wrapped them around even cheaper cigarettes. i have this small intangible memory of the night when we knew things had changed forever. when we huddled our little frames together in the parking garage across from the royal albert arms, smoking john players between bands feeling oh so punk. we kissed and smiled and laughed but i knew that you would never taste like that cherry chapstick again.

2011-03-29T23:04:00.000-05:00

today i found out that during the american revolution i had two great great great something er other aunts named Lonely and Desolate Gage. neat!

2011-03-28T10:42:00.002-05:00

i sit and try to write a story i hope you would read. something with power and imagery. but the only thoughts that creep into my mind are grass stained knees in spring, or the smell of sunscreen on her neck before lunch. the maddening rush of puppy love at sixteen or the shattering of a cars windshield (over and over again) and i've learnt that in a car wreck i'm always invincible but in your eyes i'm wandering and miserable. i used to hide under bedsheets and read novels that always ended too soon, we would grip hands at the sad parts and place each others fingerprints methodically on one another's skin. the pounding of hearts is softer then the pounding of shot glasses on the bar top but the pain in the mornings can feel very much the same, and one inevitably replaced the other when this other was lost. the smile of someone i knew but did not recognize any longer left me slouched, hands on knees, in a back lane of our busy little bar. memorizing the pavement as the nerves built up inside and insisted on leaving, and all i could think was what a waste of beer and what a waste of love and what a waste of an already wasted day. all the drugs and the alcohol and the nicotine that deteriorate my insides do not change a thing.

2011-03-28T09:37:00.000-05:00

after a day like that all i can say is what the fucking fuck.

2011-03-22T19:42:00.000-05:00

so my birthday is coming up, here is the one and only thing i want (in mutant green please!)

PENNY AUSTRALIA from Penny Australia on Vimeo.

osborne village

2011-03-22T19:18:00.002-05:00

anonymous

2011-03-21T13:18:00.002-05:00

i don't know what happened and i don't think i'll ever understand. how we lived in each other's palms and how your fingerprints became suns and moons or how you left something like planets on my skin. you turned into silver and gold threads, longer then our veins and laced right through my skull, swelling up with every single thought i ever had. and we always had these state lines cradled in our shaking hands but it never stopped our fingers from intertwining or our spines from melting into mountains. and our eyes were always tinted blue from looking up. so i'll never understand how you let me lay on the floorboards in your chest and sleep inside your rib cage when you were always going to leave. i have your words and promises, still soft with cracked edges like seashells in my back pockets because i promised i wouldn't let them get swallowed by the shore but it doesn't really matter. we don't exist anymore.

2011-03-21T12:52:00.002-05:00

"i think it's strange"
i stated as we stood under the giant elephants in the museum,
   "that we hold on to memories and thoughts and phrases and people and places
and ands and ands and ands.
   and that one day someone from a distant generation of ours will face the end of the world, they would have had our blood and our dna
   and perhaps even my freckles and your blonde hair, and that someone will be a part of us, and they will be there at the very second that the earth dies, so in a way we will be there too."
with a
breath
and a
sigh
and a glance at my worried look that you never understood
   you tucked up close
   and whispered "i hope they're in love when this all goes"

2011-03-18T12:40:00.001-05:00

maybe i'm just a sap for anything that comes out of south africa, or maybe it's my intense crush on Yolandi Visser, but this may be the best half hour (i watched it twice) that i have ever spent.

2011-03-16T15:32:00.001-05:00

we imagine being a spot of dust settled in the cracks of some old manor or mansion, buried in history and moss and mildew, far far from here and now. i watch my bitterness soften at the seams as the world dulls it with every drink and late night, just as the wallpaper of an abandoned farm house curls up around the edges and rots away with every summer sun and dew dropped morning. and i ramble ramble ramble on paper and we wish on air.

2011-03-07T21:19:00.004-06:00

this is my infrequently used tumblr: dear wendy. the "stick to yr guns" dot tumblr is not mine, and fuck the bitch who used it. i started it so i could post dope stuff which seemed out of place here. sex, drugs, violence and other overtly trendy shit in photo form and such. with university rapping up posts will be more frequent if you care er whatever.

Paris, Texas.

2011-03-07T12:04:00.000-06:00

i wanna write a country song and call it "she was a whore but i miss her cooking", also, you should probably watch this movie.

2011-03-07T10:21:00.002-06:00

the average heart beats sixty something times a minute but your heart was never average. in the middle of a car wreck you turned to say, "living was mighty pretty, maybe you and i will do it again someday?" they'll scrap the steal and bury our bones and its all just proof that the work of the ugliness is to highlight the beautiful. our clothes will probably end up in thrift stores, scooped up by trendy kids, on a particularly hot day in may and when we used to touch it felt as though our skeletons and skin would love each other even if our minds did not. we moved into the cabin just for fun, at seventeen or something, and not for very long. the roads were dangerous and we missed our friends after a few weeks. but the sun warmed the floorboards and couch cushions so perfectly in the mornings, and the lake was a dark green which cooled our everythings. we heard our grandparents in the trees and burned sage to keep the indian ghosts dancing. at night we hid from sleep out on the dock, i swore the candles would keep the spiders away (often they did not, but you never seemed to notice) and your lips were still hot and pink from the sun of the day. although that was long ago before we turned in our bones, but i think you would have agreed that she is a tapestry of new memories and old feelings and a little fucked up but god damn she's a pretty human being.

2011-03-04T13:28:00.001-06:00

2011-03-02T14:57:00.000-06:00

Paris, New York, Belfast, or Reykjavik?

2011-03-01T14:23:00.001-06:00

how dramatic

2011-02-26T22:05:00.007-06:00

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.

2011-02-26T20:56:00.001-06:00

2011-02-26T10:46:00.000-06:00

i have nothing to say. maybe in spring.

2011-02-22T21:22:00.002-06:00

nothing will be as before but nothing has changed

2011-02-22T11:57:00.003-06:00

2011-02-16T21:16:00.002-06:00

2011-02-15T13:44:00.000-06:00

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.

2011-02-14T15:39:00.001-06:00

ilk is killing it these days. he gets me stoked on spring!

2011-02-14T12:31:00.002-06:00

2011-02-13T10:36:00.005-06:00

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

2011-02-09T15:08:00.000-06:00

if time would only separate and travel forward instead of overlaying itself and presenting memory and reality as one.

2011-02-08T12:21:00.000-06:00

i miss the spring and the summer and such.

2011-02-07T08:46:00.001-06:00

"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.

2011-02-07T08:06:00.010-06:00

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

2011-02-04T12:43:00.001-06:00

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

2011-02-03T22:43:00.001-06:00

i am aesthetically pleased.

2011-02-02T14:41:00.001-06:00

2011-02-01T01:41:00.000-06:00

are you awake?

2011-01-31T13:01:00.004-06:00

we used to saunter home happy drunk, only every now and then, to jump into bed and tuck knees up behind knees with lips pressed to spine bones (yours totaled at twenty three, but i suspect we all do). now i find myself more often then not (everyday) counting the tiles of mildew on the bathroom floor, and it's five a.m. and its hard to wakeup when i'm not sleeping. what is better then a lifetime, and what is worse then a lifetime without you? freedom to fuck whomever, but sex without love wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and drinking orange juice out of the carton lost its appeal within a week (as did eating cereal with chocolate milk), i still sleep on my side of the bed and i think i'll probably die and elderly man craving your sugary lips. the look in the mirror shouts trouble, and my heart beats slower and i've lost all the red in my cheeks. i stand outside in the thin january air, with a blanket of coats and my finger tips are frozen for the sake of cigarettes. it's now 6:38 and the morning light is stuck somewhere between spring and winter. and i'm not a nihilist, it just wasn't my fault that my beliefs meant nothing. i fucking miss my old dog too, like you wouldn't believe. i am going to stop drinking. it may last a day, or a month. this means i'll probably write less, or maybe more. i am unsure.

2011-01-30T10:47:00.002-06:00

2011-01-28T11:49:00.003-06:00

university.

2011-01-27T13:04:00.001-06:00

Kierkegaard sees the self as a relation between two points. A duality of finite infinite, the free mind vs. the necessary body. however we are not a syntheses of these two elements. not to say we are strictly half mental half physical, or that these two interact. the self is the relation (a relation between two relata). in this case the relation itself is the relation of the relata. a novel, for example, is a relation between two relata, these relata being paper and the written word. the combining of these two elements creates the novel. we don't look at the novel and, when asked, say "oh, that is a combination of words and paper!" we simply see the novel. This makes the paper and the word irrelevant or non-existent. we are no longer looking at the relation, we are looking at the product of the relation (the relata drops away). and like this, the relation between relata and self drops away. we see only self. the more we relate to the relation the more we are the relation. self is a verb or an action! Asking “who am i” is your relation relating to itself, it is this act which is the self. this, however, is where despair enters. this relation is trying to end itself. the unanswerable question of "who am i", if answered, would end the question, thus ending the relation, thus ending the self.

what's the point in drinking if your only going to sober up?

2011-01-26T10:19:00.005-06:00

2011-01-25T12:09:00.000-06:00

2011-01-25T11:48:00.001-06:00

today i woke up and ate this. i saw a melting icicle so i'm pretending it's spring. i'm skipping class to hide with everyone else in the beer gardens, then wander downtown and see where i end up. i hope to see more melting icicles. i am a spring optimist born and raised and i'll give winter a happy and drunk fuck you for a day.

2011-01-25T01:54:00.002-06:00

"jesus christ" says the soldier after the blast took his legs, and "jesus christ" says the innocent man minutes before he hangs, and "jesus christ" says the men who discovered the poles and "jesus christ" says the sailor who sunk a ship, and "jesus christ" i state when you smile at me.

post modern anthropologists and other ologists.

2011-01-24T16:37:00.001-06:00

every chair in my house has a blanket draped across it's back. an empty space between elbows and knees have shown the drafts which bring a cold i never recalled feeling. achy muscles beneath the scars (right knee and elbow and left hip and shoulder) can bring some solace because you and i can see them, and i can tell you why they hurt. their just damaged cells which heal or healed as best they could. my parents gave me these limbs, my mom's a hippie and my pa was a country boy, i suspect this drops me from your league but didn't you know skinny boys tell no lies? i can shoot a rifle to kill a squirrel and sleep in a rust bucket truck so i don't miss your three a.m. payphone calls. You're a set of frozen lips and bleeding organs tied into a body of a heroin chic and i am not sick i'm just detoxing.

2011-01-24T00:10:00.001-06:00

one hundred percent uninspired. i'm unsure of when i'll get it back.

2011-01-23T19:21:00.000-06:00

october's got those orange eyes but somehow i lost sight when you lifted the lid off my pumpkin head and kissed me goodnight.

new york city

2011-01-20T12:04:00.002-06:00

"probably for every man

there is at least one city that

sooner or later

turns into a girl.

how well or how badly the man

actually knew the girl

doesn't necessarily affect the transformation.

she was there,

and she was the whole city,

and that’s that"
— J.D. Salinger

elderly

2011-01-19T18:53:00.002-06:00

the wrinkles in our palms will have become intertwined like key to lock or mitten to sweater. and even at eighty you'll ask between sighs if we'll feel like this for the rest of our lives. with our noses together i'll whisper "my little one, oh yes. you are my youth and i will breathe your soul forever." but i'll never truly know what my words mean from your perspective.

2011-01-19T09:55:00.000-06:00

don't forget me little darlin' when they lay me down to rest.

2011-01-18T01:10:00.005-06:00

i would take being lint on your sweater or a snowflake in your hair over any worldly position that exists because our closeness burns my insides. playing hopscotch between your freckles and tracing pictures of us beneath your skin and if my words were confidence i would have no need for poetry. your legs and hips reflect your intelligence which is humbly buried in beautifulness.

2011-01-17T11:25:00.000-06:00

the false i love yous you would hum to me

2011-01-16T01:59:00.004-06:00

in august my father lost his job. cut backs within the company and such. he hid it from me for quiet some time, the sadness of my dog dying and the realization that a week or so before i discovered the girl i loved no longer loved me. he deemed it too hard for a young man to bare, i had only just unpacked. they were considering selling the house, and he had put the motorcycles on the market by the time i found out. that night i climbed to the top of my old community center alone (the very same place where i gathered courage for first dances and kisses and such) and watched the glass beer bottles break one by one between the riverbank's tree trunks. i made some cold calculations about whatever events made that girls heart beat faster and drank away the days that filled in the summers gaps. i was so fucking angry that she wasn't there for me at that moment, and the enormity of my lifespan that would now take place without her loomed in the darkness (as did her ghost in my linens). my family's stress was an unwanted reminder of heartache which, at the time, seemed as real and painful as a gunshot wound to the chest. but a bearable numbness about those months and their events has grown and remains and its strange how things can change (and change again). perhaps for the better.

2011-01-14T12:57:00.001-06:00

lets hid between the walls of this old place (it's warm and the ghosts don't seem to mind) under the dripping tap and behind the power sockets until summer comes. we'll sit on the roof when the snow falls and the frost collects on the trees, because those are the nice things about winter but i'll miss when we'd try to scoop the trees reflections out of the lake with our palms. the light still pours in through the windows though, with the right angle we'll be able to pretend its a summer sun and i'll attempt to glimpse whatever matter makes your eyes so green. they way your iris absorbs the light... like the aperture of a camera and so on. the lighter your eye colour the farther north your ancestors lived is what i've heard. we held hands because we had several things in common, like past lives and the four walls of a room when we were teenagers, as well as various addictions that will get us through the next few months. but for now we belong to winter because we belong in the present.

summer please

2011-01-12T11:48:00.000-06:00

molars are broken insides are swollen

2011-01-11T00:40:00.000-06:00

this is harry crosby

2011-01-10T13:36:00.004-06:00

this is harry. harry is the godson of j.p. morgan, that is to say harry was very very rich but cared little for high society in early 20th century america. as a young boy, harry boarded at boston's foremost prep school, st. mark's. the teenage harry was being groomed for harvard, but when the united states entered the first world war harry and a few of his schoolmates enlisted and headed for the battlefields of france and belgium. on november 22, 1917, harry was driving a military ambulance transporting several wounded soldiers (including one of his best friends way spaulding) to a medical aid station. his ambulance was torn apart by a german artillery shell that landed 10 feet away, sending shrapnel ripping through the truck and the men inside. miraculously harry was unhurt, and was able to save way's life. for his stoicism and calmness in combat for this incident and many more harry became a decorated war hero. profoundly affected by his experience during the war harry vowed to live life on his own terms and abandoned all pretense of living the expected life of a privileged bostonian. he returned to the states and attended harvard but cared little for the structure of academia and elitist society. he ran on the harvard cross-country team and on the day of a very important race, and harry being next up to run, showed up late and completely hammered. he drove his car out onto the field and raced up along side the other runners telling them to hurry the fuck up and calling them a bunch of daisies. somehow harvard managed to win and at the celebration that evening harry stood up and made a random speech about light and birds, then threw up into the table's flower arrangement and passed out. he was tall, thin, with what was described as the blondest of hair. he wore sharp fitted suits, never wore a hat (a big deal back then), had tattoos on the soles of his feet, and always wore a black carnation in his lapel. he wrote boundless amounts of poetry and published these, along with the works of many other modernist poets in intricate and beautifully designed books under the name black sun press. he lived in france, the states, and traveled the world endlessly. being a full blown bohemian, he would throw parties which lasted days and days involving poets and artists, cocaine, champagne, wild animals and theatrical madness. these would be attended by the likes of hemingway, hart crane, james joyce, t.s. eliot and many more, all of whom were close friends of his. harry wrote and published entire books of poetry for his wife "caresse" and she did the same for him. it was said that they loved each other deeply, but had been with many other people throughout their lives together. harry was described as more of an impression or mood, than of an actual man with a vivid and electrifying personality. he was found in early december of 1929 intertwined in the arms of his lover josephine with a gunshot wound to the temple in what appeared to be a suicide pact. those who knew harry said that it would not have been the dislike of life that caused the suicide but the excitement of what may exist after death. an insanely strange and interesting man.

2011-01-09T11:29:00.001-06:00

moving day! the rent is cheap, the building is beautiful, and the location will support further ruckus and shenanigans and things. house warming gifts can include cigarettes, wine, and small hibernating animals. i drank too much last night and now those billion flights of stairs are looking like such a mother fucker.

2011-01-07T12:00:00.002-06:00

2011-01-07T00:49:00.000-06:00

i do not know much about anything, save for a few historical facts and stories about women. i was a baby boy once. i was kid once too. i spent time as a soldier (although i was quite young) and i spent my entirety on love as well. but now it's all a front and a simple routine. get drunk and write about whatever. get more drunk and write about her. get wasted and fall asleep watching war movies. you shouldn't read these words, let alone take them seriously (with any validity). it's not really who i am but it is sometimes. people are blindsided by life and it's shit (it's not always shit) and things are gone which can never be brought back, love and life and friends and such. i know i am young and this is just silliness (it's late and there were a few beers in the fridge) but i sincerely miss her skin. you'll be sick of these words soon enough if not already. i just miss certain things.

2011-01-06T02:02:00.002-06:00

i had let our plants die

when i left in that piece of shit truck

they no longer mattered

day after day i watched them dry up

lean and strain under the stress

of lacking what they needed.

with much pity but little remorse

i ignored them

i remember you watering them

in the mornings

your bra was whatever colour it was

and your hair was whatever colour it was

and all that sentimental shit

that no longer matters

(i don't wish them to either, i suppose)

it was summer

or spring

whatever

it no longer matters

we loved each other then

i think

they still remind me of you

that fucking bamboo one, too.

how i had desperately wanted them to go

gone forever because it no longer mattered.

but their still alive

and i've grown to like their stubbornness

they don't give a shit

because to them you never mattered.

these radio gods are finally getting some attention

2011-01-04T11:50:00.004-06:00

2011-01-04T01:49:00.000-06:00

i lack confidence in my shape and personality and persona but for fuck sakes i know i would make you happy if you forgave all that.

but she was a whore and i like your smile

2011-01-02T01:00:00.002-06:00

another new year so lets do some coke and pop some pills, the brandy is in the freezer and the future wouldn't be so bad if it didn't always become the past. i don't want to be friends, in fact, and as i sip my motor oil cup of coffee (its early in the day and i'm still hungover) i fidget and smoke to avoid the memories of when our skin used to touch beneath the bed sheets; because the nights just haven't ever been the same. and a new year has just begun but the whiskey burns as usual (the whiskey is metaphor) and there ain't nothing out there but the sky and the snow and the moon. every one i know wants to fall in love but there are safer things which keep you warm just the same (it's never the same but it will do). i find it strange that when i press my palms against the bedroom wall theres only a few inches of plaster and paint which stop the winter and the cold from swallowing me whole.

2010-12-29T02:14:00.003-06:00

my great uncle lost his leg in 1917 sometime just before the new year. a german shell and a handful of shrapnel took it from him is what i've been told. poof and it was gone (like stardust in space) and millions of his atoms settled between the grains of earth and mud and snow. man to mist in a fraction of a second and i find beauty in our bodies nothingness. max said it was a boys right to become nostalgic between drinks and all my letters form words like wine and beer and honey lips. sometimes these words seem flat and i wish i could place them into your dreams just the way i'd like but so many of my thoughts are impossible to say due to their insignificance or significance or simplicity or such and such. like how sometimes raspberry jam brings to mind thoughts which hurt my heart and how impossible it is to push someone else's kiss out of its place. i fear that nostalgia will make these words one big ugly mess sooner or later or at this very moment, perhaps.

throwing bottles like baseballs

2010-12-27T20:30:00.003-06:00

2010-12-25T23:38:00.002-06:00

"hey, that's a pretty good idea. i'll give you the moon, mary. well then you could swallow it, and it'd dissolve, see? and the moonbeams'd shoot out of your fingers and your toes.... and the ends of your hair..."

2010-12-25T18:43:00.002-06:00

sincerely disregard this drunk sentiment

2010-12-25T15:18:00.000-06:00

your eyes were a gasoline green which burnt my insides
you seemed keen but fake and i knew and wished and hoped it was not over
you wore a blue and green dress (the one you had on the night before)
and the floor was cold under my feet and i could barely speak
with words like "if you say it's true than true it will be"
all for a pseudo-boy who wears a blouse
who wouldn't loose a wink of sleep either way
my friends call you a whore (i have started to as well)
i miss you less and less you know
merry christmas

christmas er whatever.

2010-12-24T10:51:00.003-06:00

In keeping with the mexican theme this christmas eve, enjoy the tune above! When your done with that watch uno through ocho of Doin' It Baja! Best fucking video on the internet. Hopefully your not stuck at work like I am. Are bars open tonight?

can i picture you naked?

2010-12-23T12:08:00.000-06:00

this is what dreams are made of. this right here. your finger tips on the warm shower tile or the feeling of your toes on the hardwood floor. the flicker of that light bulb when you open the fridge (your mom had made shortbread cookies, their in there somewhere) and the smell of the christmas tree in the living room, its a pretty one this year but whats the point (there is no point). so whats a boy or girl to do? love like hunger, love like fire, love like my first mouthful of gasoline while your lips taste like froot loops. we could fuck, or not, it's not that important and tracing your spine with the tip of my nose is better then reverse-cowgirl in the kitchen anyways (i saw it in a movie once). your skin is the colour of my dreams and an arctic snowfall and if your freckles were words you'd speak with the utmost eloquence. i'm glad i can picture you naked because your shape deserves the attention.

2010-12-21T00:40:00.003-06:00

i wake up and make toast with jam (the last of the jar that her dad had made) and its cold out. a manitoba cold which resembles near frost bitten ears while wandering frozen lakes. but the cigarette smoke still burnt my lungs which duplicated the feeling of scalding hot toes in the shower after a cold walk home (from somewhere not so near) and i search for words like always. a is for asymmetry like charlie brown's tree, and b is for blowjob and c is for candy or cunt or caryatid (an architectural object which is reminiscent of a female shape) and i'll attempt to string them together in a meaningless mismatch of melancholiness (m). I'd build you a house, large of course, and close to the forest, near that stream perhaps. I'll trap the heat of our summer in my palms and pockets (save for the ones of which escape through my poorly sewn patches) and fill the rooms and drawers and cupboards and cups until you insisted you saw the glow of this warmheartedness ("it feels like you." you stated in a sigh between dreams and the morning). and i swore you would never feel that cold again.

if i should die, dearest.

2010-12-20T10:24:00.006-06:00

2010-12-18T23:42:00.003-06:00

i sincerely saw your skin for the first time. and at 5:45 in the morning it snowed (and snowed and snowed) as i stood on the porch staring at my untied shoe laces i declared you wonderful in my mind. my cigarette smoke agreed (as did the socks, trapped between the sheets, near the bottom of the bed) and i curled my toes to remind me knees to remind my stomach to remind my heart to quiet its beat because the neighbours need sleep as well.

2010-12-18T11:58:00.001-06:00

like an attractive girl reading your favorite book on the bus and our hearts lay open on the table at salisbury house and it's three a.m. and we poke and prod about how they all don't know what love is
no not even sex
'cause how could they?
i wrote more words but swallowed them whole so you'll have to tear apart my insides.

2010-12-16T21:14:00.000-06:00

so i've got the flu. for some strange reason i craved this glass of milk even though i rarely, if ever, drink milk. i then spent the next forty minutes starring at it in a flu-induced delirium questioning if i've missed out by not warming it up and making it into hot chocolate. being sick fucking sucks.

2010-12-13T12:22:00.002-06:00

"and it just made sense. to sail away and forget that part of my life. so many men had done this in the past for the exact same reason. for centuries i bet. the loneliness, the scariness, the harshness out there. it's like the ultimate comfort and cleansing for a man's soul. but when i got scared, i always hoped she was thinking of me."

she'll loan you her toothbrush she'll bartend your party

2010-12-10T12:36:00.001-06:00