July 2008
9 posts
I’m moving to Seattle. I may have to go back to High School for one semester to get into the Running Start program. That could be interesting.
It actually got me thinking, though. I have hated all forms of school my entire life. There was only one exception, and that was Highline High School—the school I attended in Seattle. Not only did my report card look like this:
A 104.35% A...
it’s thundering and the trees speak of violence wars with winds and winding brooks and their twisted branches leave a trail in their sway and vision blurs as discontented clouds rain wood splits and cracks and the world’s in pain
don’t say a word, the last one’s still stinging back of my mind, I feel that phone ringing and there’s no way back from this everything hits at once what we needs is just what we wants I go to sleep but think that you’re next to me I go to sleep and think that you’re next to me don’t make a move when I walk out don’t follow me out in the car can feel it...
my hands are too black
remember the sound of your soul cracking your head’s in a spin don’t even let me begin my hands are too black remember the break in the pace we took too fast for each other you scoffed like a mother and my hands were too black
I called you here tonight to set something straight we can’t ever, ever, ever, no let’s leave together
I’ve got a feeling in the bottom of my trumpet a guttural primal scream I echo skyscraper dreams there’s no problem for this solution when I climb the fragile walls do the dogs on the inside bark? behind their TV sets static reality hums as noise and cherries grow on every frame of every building reflecting blue-like grey metallic spark the gravel growls as it’s crunched and the...
Sunday, 10 AM
sunday walls are dry and cluttered white-washed and waking up I smell the coffee air the hardwood floors now soft from the week the soles of my shoes are weak I feel every bit intensely, and I feel weak everyone’s quiet and reading literature I should be hungry a cold bagel I eat it up, literally 10 in the morning I’m late for the day but still content and leaving, the feeling stays...
when I’m old enough to live I will sit with my face in my hands and make a spout for giving my tears to those I’ve torn with hopes to mend my destruction when my head is full of construction I will build amends I will make a tea-spoon of thoughts pour them in the spouts of others for them to give to another with hopes to mend their destruction
predestroyed
the strings are rusty again
the strings are rusty again
but I found a remedy
in unhappiness
and I’m clear to go I’ve got the green light
but I’m already past it
I’ve already passed this on
to the ghosts you call your emotion
they feel—you don’t
and won’t ever
if happiness lies in a cup
the condensation rubs off
as pain
such a goddamn profound...
Again #2
Again #2
comfort is kept in lights on pavement cigarettes hardwood floors your silhouette in the pale-gold dark yet dark is deceptive yet you’re there and you’re you.
not noticing is hell and impossible it seems a green light is in your smile but to go is suicide isn’t it? I mean, in this daze while the headlights waltz on the walls through the shades the thought of you is...