it's the place where you live
one or two times a year
like a vacation from love
rage
divorced from humanity, from thought
reason, temperment
I fucking hate
filled to the rim
against the dying of the light,
the light itself
from the slow motions of my head
to the quick images of random acts of violence
and senseless brutality that appear in my brain
before my very eyes
before my eyes found the nail
before I pounded the nail in the coffin
before I died
seventy-six trombones later
in full digital sound, with 1320 lines of resolution
now on parade
I watched an entire day walk right on by
it's quarter past another hour
I've shaped and shifted each minute
tailor made to suit me
changed every thing that is in my power
except everything that can be changed
honestly, I'm just tired of possibility
I'm ready to make peace with the ugliness of tedium
I need someplace to go be tedius
there are times when I think that there is no truly good experience. or truly bad for that matter. when I want to believe that everything is futile.
it's an easy excuse, sort of a lazy man's nihilism.
or darwinistic buddhism. wouldn't that be funny.
but whether I'm thinning the herd of enlightened souls or craving victory through the attrition of my desires, I don't really think the list is up to snuff.
math was never my strong suit to begin with. aftermath is even worse. I could be waiting for the other shoe to drop. or practicing my disbelief on others. maybe I'll sabotage my good fortune in some twisted self-fulfilling prophecy style.
on the flipside, we learn from our mistakes. hardship builds character. and whatever doesn't kill us makes us stronger.
but like I said, that's only when I want to believe that things aren't really all that terrible for me, or that they weren't going so well that I didn't just completely fuck myself by screwing them up.
in other words, days that end in "y"
they call me manic
feeling bad isn't all about being evil or sick or mean
sometimes it isn't even about being wrong
but if I feel bad. that is, if I feel that I haven't done something right, I keep doing things that aren't right over and over. repeating the same mistakes, as it were.
if I feel bad, and that is a genuine enough a feeling, then maybe I can twist it.? sort of turn it around and use it to make a change. that's a good thing, right? fuel for the soul.
m o t i v a t i o n
otherwise, it's just self-pity. or remorse. or worse, regret.
and what fucking good did those three ever do for anyone?
I realized this morning that I have said I'm sorry a hundred times more than I've ever said I love you.
That is no god-damned way to live.
"I am a child afraid of the dark, and you are every midnight"
he thought about it, and tried to remember the last time he accomplished anything of value. before he became a coward, he read nietzsche and considered that every breath he took was valuable because it was for him. being selfish is quite underrated, he thought.
"I would kill the whole world if you asked for their heads"
she turned back toward him a bit, because the idea of death did strike her as somewhat exciting. but she knew that he didn't have the heart to kill anyone, except maybe her. being needed is only worthwhile when he can usually have anything he wants. this poor boy was always in need.
"I am worthless without your love"
the truth is a funny thing. knowing where we draw our power, our self-worth is important knowledge. like all learning it comes with consequences. and maybe it shouldn't be shared with everyone.
"I am the flat part of the razor
and you are the hours in between the shave"
the trick is to pace yourself for life. if you give away all your poetry when you're young, you'll be forced to try and win people over with unclear thoughts, no matter how profound. if they don't get it, what is the point?
i'm a poser, not an indian
but i'm having visions just the same
i'm a pioneer, not a speaker
inventing my own rules for the game
last night was pitiful, not pathetic
no pathos was ever involved
this morning was typical, not tedious
as if the world has never revolved
my hands are shaking, i'm not stirred
i don't believe in hollywood endings
you could have called me, or said yes
but what's the use in our pretending?
i'm always drowning, a kind of gasping
though i never go in the sea
'cause I'm a poser, not a loser
and dying is just the end of living for me
there is a streak of desperation on the glass
left by the last breath of a dying soul
that never felt the power of a victory
or its deeply replenishing effects
the door is cold to the touch
and outside the sky is black in the absence of the moon
living things shiver from the cold
or whatever it is that keeps us wondering where we go
he is beyond the ubiquitous curiosity of death
shaped like the mountain by time, ragged, too
his vision is settled only on the one thing
that we all possess no matter what we tell ourselves
and by the time the light comes over the treetops
beginning a new day of promise for the living
the streak has been wiped clean by a jacketed arm
leaving no trace of the miserable tear
it's just a title.
and this is just a string of words I learned somewhere. put it all together and you have me on a night I didn't drink. but I think I want one.
i haven't touched my journal in days.
a screenplay in weeks.
a poem in months.
a heart in forever.
my phone calls are variations of the holy-trinity:
a mystery, following belief, grasped in despair, demanding faith and without response.
i have no one to call anyway.
i'm glad there are one more weddings. stag is an evil euphemism.
