I laid there watching you upon the screen
My slight buzz increasing with small sips
With wine goggles on you were even more pristine
and then these words released from my lips

Oh Jake Gyllenhall
Why are you so much prettier than everyone
No one compares to your hair swoosh
Just by your outstanding appearance alone you've won  
You're sweet personality makes all other males look like a ******
Why can't the men I see resemble you?
Your scruffy beard gives me butterflies
From the first moment I heard your voice my love for you grew
Sadly no one can compare so I will have to compromise

And as I closed my eyes I only thought of you
Oh Jake Gyllenhaal if only I was someone you knew

here is the year that i rarely noticed the always redness on my index finger from the key i had to fight to twist. every day. the year that i got over you and then under you. there was the night i figured out faith. and the morning i forgot it. i bought a lot of denim this year, and i told you a lot of stories ("you" being you, this time). i watched more jake gyllenhaal movies than i expected to--"the year of jake gyllenhaal"--but it wasn't his year, it was mine. sometimes it was too pretty to believe in--sometimes i didn't--and sometimes it was like a compound fracture, and instead of setting it, 9-1-1 just kissed me on the cheek and said it's okay. some nights that fixed it. it was the year when i was a real grown-up, and nobody could tell me not to buy ***** or not to eat bacon every lunchtime, or not to drink ***** with my bacon, at least. there were mornings when i woke up aching for someone to tell me just that, to stop, to tell me how to do it. how to do this. how to be a two-wheeler. a year when i still don't quite have it down, but i think i will. here is the year when i lost you and i found you and i lost you and i loved you, and i love you, and you, and you, and you. here is the year that i had visceral dreams and ghosts in the corners of my eyes. i asked them politely to leave, and they did. here is the first year ever that i did not break an umbrella in the wind, and i did not twist my ankle, and i did not finish that book you lent me. i did not finish that mug of tea you put too much honey in that burned my tongue when i sat on your squeaking bed for the first time. this year, i wore snow boots and i microwaved soup indoors and i had a lot of sad saturdays with easy sundays. i watched my tiny town become a tragedy and a hero, and i watched bigger towns do the same, and i think i got to understand compassion, but i watched myself make you sad, and this was the year i did that too many times to count with fingers. there were nights when i only wanted to count your fingers, and nights when i wanted everything at its fastest. here is the year that a lot of people left and i drank more cups of coffee than i expected to, but i still slept more than anybody wanted. here is the year that i wore my grandfather's jacket, and an old friend's sweater. i made money and mistakes and amends and movies and little wooden chairs and painted cups. here is the year that i don't know how, but i will.

I’ve come to learn that I cannot pray
With a full heart that’s devoted, unsuspecting of faith.
And I’ve learned to accept that god might have mercy
But he also has wrath
And that’s what I see mostly.

Wars and death surround us so profoundly and yet we just pray harder
so we can sleep soundly

Uncertainty is deadly
I’m sadly inclined to believe so
At least in this place
Where it’s wrong to show ankle& toe.
Or have weak faith be the reason or your woes
Maybe God’s anger is why you’re not good at this and that
It’s also why you can’t find your ‘perfect’ match
Because your heart is tainted, and your mind too aware so they never fancy you as a ‘catch’
You’re not porcelain doll either, you’re full of scar and scratch
so start praying harder dear (there’s no future with Gyllenhaal or Cumberbatch)
and so you’re expected to bloom before you even hatch
because nothing matters more than finding a match
Or else you’d grow old and be trapped
with lonesome that kills and a reality that slaps.
“that’s what God intended”
Is what I’m forced to believe
so I can pray harder
and never have time to grieve

why would god mind if I *******
Or participate in a heated debate
About his existence (whether it’s real or fake)
And why he causes all this heartache
Because yet again
All I see is death and wrath
and sometimes I drown myself in a bath
To escape all I’ve come to hate
About this place and how people tell me my fate
Because anything different would make the Lord angry
Like raising your voice
Or acting ‘manly’

So When will he shed light
And make a child of war’s smile somewhat bright
Because he abandoned them
Or so it seems
I guess he’s too caught up with my wildest dreams
& the length of my jeans.

sometimes a movie comes along,
and it just has a blistering soundtrack,
matched with a simplistic element
that enthralls with its quirks,
and i've never seen jake gyllenhaal
in a toilet-paper script,
that said, the soundtrack?
   probably as good as the soundtrack
for blow...
    besides the point:
even though b movie by gil scott heron
is on there...
   did i tell you about gil penning
the ****** factory?
   ah, but when he talks, he talks,
when he writes, that's just second hand
oxfam material.
on that note, or rather: to untune a piano
and play a ***-note on every turn..
how do you tune a guitar,
with only 5 strings, hole in the back
you can peer through, and the most necessary
string (D) missing?
oh yeah, used to play,
then i did a nirvana echo of smashing
it on the garden patio...
        **** me, it felt good...
the acoustics of the area improved...
     anyway...
   you know how punk was beaten in
terms of 3-chord minimalism?
ha ha... i still can't believe that
mungo jerry's song in the summertime
beat this song...
    2 chords... 2! two chords!
  that was all that made this song...
now, if paul kossoff wasn't the genius
of rhythm minimalism,
then i don't know who was...
   well...
      there was the spirit guitarist
randy california (sounds like a pornostar
already) - but that song
when i touch you on the album
twelve dreams of dr. sardonicus?
   three chords? i can't remember,
but the songs that can be played by toddlers
are the songs you treat as dogma...
forget deep purple's smoke on the water,
**** it, i once held
an ibanez iceman in my hand once,
while you still had a ****** megastore
on oxford street, before megashithead
branson pulled the plug...
always wanted that guitar...
but i gave it up: why? after a while playing
a guitar on your own feels
much worse than jerking off -
lucky me, unlucky women -
still playing with a part of ken and
barbies...
   by now it probably feels as soft
as performing ****...
      so... yeah... what's the problem?
it has become so routine that i sometimes
forget to brush my teeth...
wipe my *** i do dully -
  but if i'm not in a close range to someone's
nasal duct: pea-sized smear
(rather than dollop) - can't remember
when i last had a dentist appointment...
anyway... but that's the truth!
paul kossoff went far beyond
punk minimalism of the 3 chord progression...
and it still, to this day, sounds:
so much better...
          i still don't understand
why in the summertime made it to no. 1
and free's alright now did;
bugs the **** out of me;
then again there's black sabbath's three note
rhythm on black sabbath -

D)               3
A)                            2
E)    1

i do remember using my pinky finger a lot,
yeah, i managed staircase
   and under the bridge -
  
but i settled for the piano, with letters and
punctuation marks on it.

Scarlett Johansson
Maggie Gyllenhaal
Susan Darlene Meek

I do not find
do not find
But i seek seek seek seek seek

Predatory terror
In the natural world
claw and awe and beak

Thai spirit houses
Mamasan
cabinets cedar and teak

                 Eeeeek!