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'...and i feel i am courting saturn.'

writings.

7/6/09 12:48 pm - coworker.

i prayed i was as sloppy as you.
oh, i wished i could slobber and bleed
doll myself up in tequila
and spin my car into trees. 

i've watched you toss hearts
like a stick or string
just so they'll come running back.
so glad i'd never cling.

you're just another drunk.
teased hair,
bruised knees,
a pathetic flirt. 
and me,
aching to be 
just as empty.

7/6/09 12:44 pm - goat.

 the day came again
as a child
i search through fallen trees
under paraffin sunsets.
my stomach pale and scratched
knees wet with mud.
smells of stale and death
i stumble and there
sagged and pale flesh
its eyes dead empty
face to face, i wretch
and it does nothing.
just nothing.

2/4/09 02:30 am - on Steve Reich.

willed repetition
and a slight change.
"music for eighteen musicians"
trade pepsi for a coke.
like steady aligned notes
days follow straight black lines
and i find the only difference is a sock
or a coat.

like spare pennies
i keep losing track of b flats.
eighths or sixteenths?
notation never lasts
and coda after coda
the composer in me becomes
more past tense.

the morning touches
and light fills my room
as i watch shadows
lean as they always rest.
imagining 6:00 A.M. on the clock
but, life is not a movie
and i'm left with hours
as they slowly coalesce.

2/4/09 02:28 am - guns'n roses.

and birds flying
like SnoCaps above me.
a tense shopping center
and all of southern california calling.

blonde and blue.
remember you and i
trading pasta dishes,
full of Absolut.
swallowing candy bars.
clementine skylines spent
on artificial sugars
and saturated fats.

maybe not red wine
and rehearsed lines.
valentines.
but, with wet bangs you told me
as i laid cold
and shaken.

reflecting on:
how many times i have swore to never need Mark Kozelek again.
yet, here i am
poised dirty in memorized lyrics
saying "never, never again."

though in the disarray of hand holds
and goodbye kisses
i realize "Chinese Democracy" might actually come out.

2/4/09 02:27 am - handle bar mustache (hopes.)

if i was 12 i'd be running with sparklers in my hand
and two M-80s in my pocket.
watching my dad slumped at a picnic table
spilling popcorn crumbs and sipping on one of those
plastic cups that freezes itself.
my mother dancing in our barn
talking about how new it feels.
my brother wrapped in a blanket of anti-nazi
and baseless political pride sipping on a cherry coke
and kicking my ass in croquet.

i've realized why i'm marked apathetic.
a generation of pleasure seekers that
have no preference of white, yellow, or black.
we'll throw balloons while it lasts.
and i want to know where the boys are taking shots
and how many girls found their heads curled next to free coffee
and an "i voted" sticker.

his feet were bigger. that is why he always won.
now we're parallel though. i have a wall of backyard trophies
and he has two permanent hearts.
i suppose girls go for the jock,
even when his hair is bleached orange
and his passion involves bloodsuckers.

we're finding ourselves shooting roman candles
hoping flashes of light will break the dark.
but, all the girls i know have shaved pussies
and don't mind that their skirts are hiked.
learning every year
that fireworks mean so much more when you're young.
and i'm spent for comfort food
starring at my kitchen floor
lit by the t.v.

and i only can explain my anticipation as so;
a scene from 'Men Who Hate Women'
girl buys a Elvis mirror.
girl tries to take it to a boy.
boy is with another girl
and so she throws out the sign
muttering to herself
"stupid, stupid girl."
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