I got home from a two-week stay in Hawaii 22 hours ago and
thinking to myself all of the things which had been bearing down on me for the
past 14 months I decided to instead of sleep said “the hell with it” and lighting
a match there I stood. With the match I saw many a thing but my gaze was fleeting
in the flickering haze of my match. You’d be surprised how much does doesn’t
get done when you light up inside your head and say “the hell with it, the hell
with sleep, the hell with memory” Lying on the back of a sofa and not remembering
why you left your bed and not even remembering getting up but there you are. No
matter where you go there you are as they say no more no less, but yes, a
little match will light your way and all we ask is something little on the
inside but heaven forbid if we ever needed something you needed, no sacrifices of
interminable worth can befell the hero of you, this is science fiction dear you
are about to bleed out of your own head but you know at least you hope you’re
just fooling yourself and you are but you are also hiding and no no no, hero’s
are not for hiding child. You shouldn’t have lit the match because now it burns
in the corner with greed, and should you even be able to ignore the gluttony of
its glimmer you will find it feasting on you before long for you made the deal
said “the hell with it” and now look what you’ve done, burned down the islands of
Kamehameha and his forefathers who now stalk you in their long sleep and tickle
you with their blue beards. Machete machete, you know nothing of culture but a
sickle is a sickle and this one was meant to cleave mountains, the soviets
would love to get their hands on it oh yes that was a horrible pun but puns will
be all we have left after the world is rotted to ash all because one boy had to
light a match.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Friday, March 8, 2013
Idea for a short story
If I could pin post-it notes to the sky,
Detailing and dictating my fears of the future and the past,
I would have enough paper to blot out the stars.
Only I'm betting we would run out of trees first.
I remember telling a girl,
"Stop me if you've heard this one before but,
If I could swim to the deepest part of the ocean
Or sail to the farthest star
To prove my love for you,
I would do it.
But I can't do any of those things,
All I can do is say, 'Hey, would you like a beer'"
When she asked me if I was trying to take advantage of her I said,
"I hope not, but it's hard to tell sometimes."
I asked her if she was going to try and fix me.
"Fuck you" she said and smiled.
I grinned back and laughing yelled,
"Fuck ME!!"
Later that evening we found ourselves in an apartment
Mine or hers, pick your favorite, it doesn't matter.
We sat around like old buddhist monks and listened to punk rock.
She looked like a rockstar the way she pulled the ash off her cigarette and into her teeth.
"If you could accomplish anything in life, just one thing, what would it be?" She whispered through dust-covered lips.
I thought about it for a minute, an actual minute too, and she just stared and sat and smoked.
"I'd like to be the second or third result in an image-based search for the word queer."
She giggled, "Do you take anything seriously?"
I grinned broadly back at her and bounced to the record that was playing, Fugazi I think.
"I love this band" I said all casual.
"I love the way you love them" She smiled blandly.
Do you love anything? whispered my skull.
She tasted like Genesis.
That's not me trying to be poetic and using smoke and ash as a metaphor for dust and Adam and Eve and the usual Biblical lexicon.
Open up a Bible and lick the first page of Genesis.
Now you know.
Afterwards I noticed a trail of small scars along the inside of her forearm.
Circular, pink lilypads surfacing and seeping in a tangled line.
She smiled briefly and her brown eyes turned black.
"I dunno." She said
***
Detailing and dictating my fears of the future and the past,
I would have enough paper to blot out the stars.
Only I'm betting we would run out of trees first.
I remember telling a girl,
"Stop me if you've heard this one before but,
If I could swim to the deepest part of the ocean
Or sail to the farthest star
To prove my love for you,
I would do it.
But I can't do any of those things,
All I can do is say, 'Hey, would you like a beer'"
When she asked me if I was trying to take advantage of her I said,
"I hope not, but it's hard to tell sometimes."
I asked her if she was going to try and fix me.
"Fuck you" she said and smiled.
I grinned back and laughing yelled,
"Fuck ME!!"
Later that evening we found ourselves in an apartment
Mine or hers, pick your favorite, it doesn't matter.
We sat around like old buddhist monks and listened to punk rock.
She looked like a rockstar the way she pulled the ash off her cigarette and into her teeth.
"If you could accomplish anything in life, just one thing, what would it be?" She whispered through dust-covered lips.
I thought about it for a minute, an actual minute too, and she just stared and sat and smoked.
"I'd like to be the second or third result in an image-based search for the word queer."
She giggled, "Do you take anything seriously?"
I grinned broadly back at her and bounced to the record that was playing, Fugazi I think.
"I love this band" I said all casual.
"I love the way you love them" She smiled blandly.
Do you love anything? whispered my skull.
She tasted like Genesis.
That's not me trying to be poetic and using smoke and ash as a metaphor for dust and Adam and Eve and the usual Biblical lexicon.
Open up a Bible and lick the first page of Genesis.
Now you know.
Afterwards I noticed a trail of small scars along the inside of her forearm.
Circular, pink lilypads surfacing and seeping in a tangled line.
She smiled briefly and her brown eyes turned black.
"I dunno." She said
***
Titles are seriously overrated says this privaleged white american youth
I have pledged to become
Among other things in the past twenty years
An archaelogist,
An Olympic fencer,
A novelist,
A poet,
A rock star,
A good boyfriend,
A good brother,
A good son,
A good man.
It took me twenty years to realize,
That I was full of shit.
I mean, I made myself these promises
When I didn't have any clue on how to make good on them...
I come from a rich heritage of fearing the dark,
Leaving a light on when I go to sleep,
And always having someone else look under my bed.
Lately the thing I've been fearing...
Is becoming a parody of myself.
To reach a point where I can't discern whether or not I'm sincere about
ANYTHING
And to fall into a pit of apathy
While I'm telling you this right now I want you to imagine me
Smiling, laughing
I want you to be unable to decide
If I'm serious or not
I want you to share in my confusion
Among other things in the past twenty years
An archaelogist,
An Olympic fencer,
A novelist,
A poet,
A rock star,
A good boyfriend,
A good brother,
A good son,
A good man.
It took me twenty years to realize,
That I was full of shit.
I mean, I made myself these promises
When I didn't have any clue on how to make good on them...
I come from a rich heritage of fearing the dark,
Leaving a light on when I go to sleep,
And always having someone else look under my bed.
Lately the thing I've been fearing...
Is becoming a parody of myself.
To reach a point where I can't discern whether or not I'm sincere about
ANYTHING
And to fall into a pit of apathy
While I'm telling you this right now I want you to imagine me
Smiling, laughing
I want you to be unable to decide
If I'm serious or not
I want you to share in my confusion
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