2001-10-03 - 3:48 a.m. - the dying of men
Washing off outside broken
Walls: poems written on
Taught skin, broken by displacement, erased
To bone, burnt, bleeding. Flesh,
Parchment dry, chars
To the touch of a match-tip,
Lit. The smell of fire and
Skin occupying the same space, speaks
In seleptic phrases, elliptical,
Calling lost dogs home, where
They know how to eat.
Men turning to ash, gray,
Coat and tie aesthetic, fall,
Scatter violently; clockwise
Rotations - carbon dusty dandelion
Seeds, released
From the hands of small boys.
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i need to go to the store. i've been drinking wine in the evenings because im out of all other liquids. not a lot of wine. just a small glass when the thirst becomes unbareable. it kind of feels nice to be honest. i don't really have a whole lot to say. i've been busy rooting for bary bonds to break mark mcgwires single season home run record but am tired of the fact that no one will pitch to him. how can a guy get a hit if he isn't thrown a few strikes. and beyond that days are static. not sleeping much. i think i need a new dream.
and i wonder why you never write me.
and outside stars are collapsing beneath the weight of so much heartache and lonliness and really, sometimes boldness just doesn't belong and your grateful that you realize that before you become lightning. once you are lightning you can never go back. im not bold, never have been, never will be. maybe for a moment playing the saxophone in front of thousands of spectators on a football field and throwing my hat on the ground. that was bold. and falling in love with you right before i moved away and writing all those letters. that was bold. and the music building incident, that was bold. but im not bold. not now, not ever.
xoxo
listen to: stevie wonder and whatever the fuck our new band is called.
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