La-te-da, la-te-da, Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, And you’re smiling, me, Why are you smiling You shouldn’t be smiling And then it makes sense To me that you’re thinking That I haven’t changed Dreaming big dreams Doing this but never with Follow through Or chasing
Dec. 9, 2006 & Dec. 9, 2008 I. The Smell of Pine the faces we wear, well, I’m doing the laundry as we speak and there’s my reflection in the glass of the public dryer, eight minutes for a quarter, over and over everything spins. when it comes
Torrents of passion for things that aren't, coupled closely, in this land of me, with realities for the things that are: troubled things, battered and worn these things, these things unseen. Slowly begins the march toward something else, unrelenting, in this land of me, like water paired to
what if life is a runway and we’re planes waiting in line a holding pattern until we get clearance for takeoff what if life is only a stage, not in the theater sense, but more like a stretch of travel like Illinois to California what if life is a
Forlorn is a sort of mourn First felt when my brother visited When I was only four, Or rather when he left After a weekend of play. I recall that feeling now, Because it’s back, that’s fact – But I’m the one departed After travels to lands distant,
I. Again, in the air and weightless, a popcorn cloud lollygagging towards underdetermine destiny – or is it predefined chance? No matter, my collisions these days are happenstance if by happy chance and its sort of neat, neat like sealed letters to be dropped in the mail, to think of you
They say a man in war focuses, or rather holds onto, something from home, something to look forward to – to return to – and he either does that OR he submits to the notion he’s not going home. They say you haven’t flown first class until you traveled in
Intinction, but not bread and wine, but myself dipped in struggle like the fireman’s hand reaching through fire and I tell myself again it’s all for the better. These things I learn and accepting this communion is taking a breath of air outside the city on an overcast
ignorance is the moment, the three seconds or so, when you awake. beauty is a place we travel to inside out head love is another name for tomorrow tomorrow is the reason we go to sleep sleep is a vehicle, not unlike the airplane tears are feelings trying to escape
I. A Swede named Rolf wanted to know and so he asked: what exactly is the mind? and how did that Buddhist monk set himself on fire and not show the signs of pain? Rolf is like me, a new New Yorker, asking questions, not expecting a response. Rolf is
do you remember those nights of a college's roommates coughing? kept you awake but you knew, you focused on, it wouldn't always be like this. say i were to plot on a map when that miserable night occurred, i'd place it up in new
lowering the throw to the grass freshly mowed placing shoes strategically while planning for the stiffest breeze and thinking: I’d rather be jogging among the trees surviving logging where the sun be shining like a teenager’s driving and realizing: I lay now like timber logged because the breeze,