We sold our clothes to the state (I don't mind)

Things I must do this summer

1. Sneak out

2. Do something I am deeply afraid of

3. Make a friend

4. Talk to you

5. Talk to you

6. Go somewhere alone

7. Learn to drive

8. Be absolutely insane

9. Find me again.

Sometimes People

Sometimes people want to understand me; but I push them off because how can they? When I don't even understand myself.

The piano is not firewood yet, (but the cold does get cold so) it soon might be that.

Everyone knows it's going to hurt; but at least you'll get hurt trying.

My God, have I mentioned how much I love Prufrock?

I oftentimes wonder how an artist sits in his studio and thinks of concepts:

Concept records (The Wall by Pink Floyd; you know the rest)

or how drunk men become bums with names.

How do people write?

The human heart will always just be red leather, yellow leather.

True Romance

True romance is dead; I shot it in the chest then in the head.

I really miss 2007, when I had short, choppy hair; a Panic! At The Disco vinyl I couldn't play; and friends when I didn't think I had them.

Now my hair is long.

Now I play Jim Croce on Saturdays and forget to turn the record-player off. And my dad yells.

Now I think I have friends when I don't.

Now it seems like everyone is a stranger, and I've never really met or known anyone at all--no that's not it at all.

Now I just read Prufrock or Gone with the Wind.

What I like right now:

Just so you know, you'll never know.

We drown traitors in shallow water.

They call kids like us vicious and carved out of stone; from what we've become, it just feels more alone.

Even when there's nothing worth living for, you're still worth lying for.

She said she said why don't you just drop dead?

Last year's wishes are this year's apologies.

Two out of three ain't bad.

New York eyes, Chicago thighs.

The truth hurts worse than anything I could bring myself to do you.

I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.

I keep my jealousy close because it's all mine.

Turn off the shyness.

Oh, the way your makeup stains my pillowcase like I'll never be the same.

Choose love or sympathy, both never both. Love never wanted me; but I took it anyway.

Wandering/Wondering

I went drifting, through the capital of sin.

I wonder if, you know, this is the Internet and you could still read this? You know who you are? But if so, I hope you don't read this. Out of respect for me. And just life. And everything, because here's what I thought:

It's like Daisy Buchanan, and that's the only thing I could thing of at that moment, was Daisy Buchanan and Jay Gatsby. Odd, huh? It's like all the movies made sense for a moment, and nothing that happened was weird... it was, in fact, perfectly normal, but I thought a lot about it. I wondered a lot about why and how and the WHAT. The WHAT was really present and strong. I could have stayed for hours, and when it ended, I wished I had. I wished and I replayed and relayed in my head how things happen in my world, and they are so different. But what good would come of it? Life would return to normal; the most I would get is a harder slap in the face of separation and hidden... hidden. But I'd be human, so human that I wouldn't speak. I don't know why the hell I'm here, or why you're here, or why we don't talk, or why we should or shouldn't; I really don't know much. Maybe you think I do or maybe you think I don't, but I don't. I JUST MISS THE FEELING OF READING SHAKESPEARE. My mind is a rattling rusty cage, and you don't belong there, I can't stick you there or keep your semblance in there, ever. You belong to freedom, and it's all passed, but, my God, how these things do drag on. The days just bleed all over the concrete sidewalk in my mind; here, there, I feel it red and wet but I'm alive for it. The feeling of reading Shakespeare and developing a friendship and having an open window on a warm night by moonlight is the most beautiful feeling in this entire world; to read Midsummer, to dream and to watch and to be fully human and alive. I loved it, and I love it now. I don't know why I like life so much; it's a really abstract thing. I don't know why it's my favorite thing in the world... It's better than food or love or talking or music. Life is just my favorite thing in my life, and I don't know why.

So, This is The New Year

I don't feel any different. The clanking of crystals and canons off in the distance.

Truth is, I do feel different.

Nobody Knows Me

At all, when the lights are low; I'm with someone I don't know.

I almost feel as if I am holding a white flag in my fists still pumping vitally as if a heartbeat were within the capillaries of my fingers. "Here lies December 12, 2009. Here lies beloved wife of August 1, 2003. What a beautiful, loved, missed, cherished, respectful eveningtide of frog-tubas, star-piccolos, snap-marimbas. Adieu, adieu." I keep telling myself that one day one day won't die. But they always do, anyway. Our hearts are really just gargantuan palaces of these gravestones, and the deceased days lie there, and we never, ever pray for them. I hope somebody prays for me when I die, for my soul is at the mercy of life gone.

Anyway, I don't want to talk about it.

That's the issue. It's that, if you, leave, the, mind,stagnant, enough for, long

it pretty much dies.

Give me back my damn book.

The stickers are still sitting here

along with $4.25 and change

and warmth

and wrapping

and cards

and you're getting it,

but just

Give me back my damn book,

please.

It's hard enough to handle that moment

When it's still a virgin

and it's the wedding

Nothing's changed yet,

She's still who you want her to be forever, there, in her dress.

And then I open the doooo--

CREAK.

And then I feel coldth on my fooo--

CREAK.

I open the door to the bathroom, the most trrrr---

CREAK.

The toilet goe---

CREAK.
CREAK.

CREAK.

All the way back, reverse it.

By then, the whole world plus the bird knows you're awake

and you've consummated

but you don't feel like love, you

Feel like a pervert in the dusk.

When I stood out looking in that crowd

Most faces I could name if I'd like (but I don't want to)

they all seem so purposeful.

They all have something to say

--The faces, not the souls.

No, the souls are stillness in the auditorium.

And they clutch something, Oh, anything to accompany.

I don't feel comfortable being an actress

because eventually she signs a lease to take off her clothes

and kiss some boy she doesn't even love--

and if you didn't love him, why did you kiss him?

Because there's money in lust and in cameras.

So I just sit down and pretend like I have sunglasses on,

and pretend like someone but no one sees

What I'm seeing take place at that moment.

Even in the paralysis on the left,

the right wing huddles and swoops to bandage and cure.

Even in the mute front (all quiet on...)

The back tones of auburn and cigarettes

(Cigarettes is the perfect antepenultimate for any song)

rise above, swimming in the overheard sea of emotion.

There is never silence in the gym.

But, above all else,

I love you and pray for you, and you, you, you

Give me back my damn book.

Dreams of Hartford All of My Life

Don't you ever want to quit humanity?

I really don't get myself, and it's not a matter of progress. It's a matter of:

I am a body who does not know the soul within;

and until I know her,

I'll always be stuck in the Purgatory of my mindscape.