long before light graced
beyond my sealed lids,
a gray lady sat sewing
squares, "for foundation."

her accent was like the
magenta strips with
which she bordered:
a boy needs foundation,
boundaries to teach him
his boundlessness, dirt
in which to sink his feet.

and unlike my foundational
quilt, linked so firmly to the earth,
she faded
first to rose, and then
to silver pink before
                                   dissipating
into dusted petal wither.

i'll meet her on the next go around.

my sixteenth was bitter-themed
and my parents gave me
a mexican blanket,
colored like mother,
aqueous aquamarine
and patterned like father,
those angular and triangular
movements;
woven just like theirs,
to give me rest and
haven on the roads
of my inevitable adventures.

and when i am eighteen
the women of my family
will meet with needles
and spools, and wool
to click-clack and chit-chat
over my adulthood -

and when it is done,
i will behold azure
like the heavens
entangled with warm tones
and spun prayers
to cocoon
in the chill of
carolina's coast

You said you crave attention.

I'm prepared to give you all the attention you could ever need,
yet you pretend you don't hear me knocking.

Why?

Are you afraid of the feelings I have for you?
You don't understand.
I have had these feelings always, they are nothing new.
Are you afraid of losing me because they are not reciprocated?
You don't understand.
I have had these feelings always, and they have never been reciprocated.
The only way I will give up is if you continue what you're doing.

You're pushing me away and i'm tired of trying to catch up.

You're too busy with work you say,
yet you go to parties with him.
You're too busy with school you say,
yet you always have time for him.

I'm not jealous because you kiss him,
i'm jealous because he is stealing you from me.

time is
smiling
at the thought of you
and my eyes only sting
for a moment

and even if I miss you
I've stopped reminiscing
about
hot summer kisses in the dust
while those feelings
plagued me
with too big and too much
I'm sorry you had me
when I wasn't much

time is
your name
still catches in my throat
but now I know
it was never because
I wasn't enough

the words don't come
when I try
lightheartedly
to write is to live
is to bleed

I can't compare
perfection
to anomaly
I can't think
I'm trying to breathe

I torture myself in many ways.
Be it these cigarettes,
that bottle,
those songs,
or your letters.

When the sun goes down
my little sister asks
"Can I see the moon?"
So I hold her hand and take her outside
and sometimes we don't see it
but on nights like tonight
it shines brighter than it should.
Brighter than it has any reason to.
Yet Audrey thinks it's pretty
and I guess that's reason enough.

I remember the night,
when Guardian Angel, My Best friend, The Girl Who Fancies Scared Faces and myself drove up to a moonlit
little place called Sugarloaf Mountain.
And at the top
we drank cheap wine,
smoked cheaper cigarettes
(Hey man, they're all we got)
and each took turns playing a song.
My Guardian Angel started with Neutral Milk Hotel,
then My Best Friend played The White Stripes,
then The Girl Who Fancies Scared Faces played Atmosphere,
and finally I used my turn on Clapton.

We drank more beer
and smoked the last cigarette,
and laughed,
and laughed,
and marveled at how beautiful the moon was and how it doesn't need a reason to shine.
I ended up in My Guardian Angel's bed, after some more cigarettes and beer and ****.
We shared kisses and cuddles and laughs and sweat.

Surprisingly enough,
this little vile of some
horrible stuff
called "Pink-Pink"
is actually rather
musky.

And to think,
after three months
and then two more,
I would get six checks.

Micky Mantle captivated
the nation,
and Lars Montannaro
is captivating
this town.
All the while
Michael Moore is killing God
and God is killing us.

One must ask oneself,
did God create me,
or did I create God?
Is God within me,
or am I God myself?

Throughout John Carpenter's life
many questions plagued him,
most remained unanswered,
few allowed him to live
and one killed him.

He lies dying,
gasping for air,
with nothing but
Steinbeck and brandy
to bid him farewell.

On a bed without sheets,
in a motel without a kitchen,
in a town without a theater,
in a state without a king,
in a land without hope,
God lays dying.
With nothing but the prayers of
Mary Stein to bid him goodnight,
he prays himself.

Every man is a believer in the foxhole,
just as he is a saint.
Praying and praying,
the fire rallies
around a man,
his emancipated guts
lay spewing blood in the dirt.


Without a clear objective man is nothing.
Nothing is everything,
and everything is unexplainable
just as nothing can be explained.

The Dark sings a song it believes to be beautiful,
and the Light finds it discouraging to it's attempts
of what it believes to be beautiful.
So the Light chases away the Dark
and the Wanderers wonder where it went.

Wandering this world,
they try
and try
and try
to find it.

They are looking in the wrong world.

The man with a gun
runs to the store and back
and back
and back again.

The willows whisper a tune for their god
that the oaks find blasphemous.
The oaks chant louder and louder
so as to please their god.

Life goes on
and life goes on
and life goes on
and then it doesn't.
Then suddenly it  begins
in a thousand more forms
and in a thousand more lungs
it breathes.
Life will continue to exalt God
and God will continue allowing life to breathe.

For as long as there is air,
breathes shall be taken.

I kept pretending
That I couldn't remember your name
So determined that you weren't
Worth the time of day
I guess it's a reflection
Of my own sorry self
Such pretentious invention
Of isolation's hell