I'll b your crying shoulder

love's suicide? I can't remember who does this song
but,
regardless:
your fingers and wrists and hands are waking me up
up inside me, waking up
sweatless, sweetsmelling
my back the length of a bridge
foot me
I'm covered in it
I want to wake up your breakfast
I like the sitting under stars in perfect summer
what will I have to talk about when summer's over? maybe it will all be over
haha I'm not sad, I just don't have anything to say
haha
I'll bet you're a nevercry
I like your eyes downcast
boylashes
symmetry face
gaunt
like a balloon letting out
up high in your kitchen
I found gift certificates for a hot air balloon date
they expire in december of this year.
they were written out two decembers ago
when this summer wasn't invented yet.
you said you would try to buy them
from your basement roommate who teaches churchy preschool
I am not dressed churchy today at all
but I'd be churchy if we took a balloon date
I won't be here in december when the gift dies
but I'd get up early
make some mimosas or something, whatever you drink in a balloon
I'd like to do it in the air
but some old man will probably be there, so
I doubt it.
I'm a fun float date, I'd guess
I like the fantastic world
I can be a good time in it, above it
I took a hot air balloon ride once, over lake tahoe
above the epic deep turquoise
so let's sky before our summer dies
rightly

kids of summer

we found by stench a tarp-covered maggot dog on the river
the corpse smell inducing the vomit of a nearby fisherperson
ian poking it with a stick to find out what it was
did someone attempt a haphazard burial riverside?
did someone throw their best friend off a bridge
I've never seen so many maggots
it's been hot like summer again, so
they're loving on scorch death
we had to ford the river
because our spot was taken
by a humansized shit
whose odor was pleasanter
than that of the poor friend
and the homeless family
it was like a birthday party, tons of kids
changing to naked in the bushes
but all of our party made it
HERE LIES BUTTHEAD
nickey didn't get the ref, there were more advanced computer games when she was a kid
like the sims
probably sims 2, at the very least
oh youth
I don't really get carded anymore
we put our chairs in the water, sinking in the sand
and watched the rivercops drive around us
officer undercurrent, paddleboard cop, on the case
ah, summer.
taking the easy way out

growup

puuff puuff passss
 
what's the secret
  you're trying to tell me a secret
beneath a bridge, in a raincar
  finally you're like me, you like me now
  I stopped thinking, I had a good braintime and then it turned
  into me, just months. let's get this callout! I am a most tender callous girl. I have never been younger.
  I talked to my mom, she wants to take everyone to the galapagos islands. she wants me to start thinking of the future, she doesn't want me to get fat. she doesn't want me to be a waitress for the rest of my life. she wants me to treat my illnesses. she wants me to surround myself with interesting people, she wants me to be an Artist. this is partly why we don't talk all that often

 I wish I could have told you abt her
before you died, but
you might have been
  too concerned with dying
  so hear more
for your deadugly ears
  a little worm for tunneling
   
while I was writing this, my mom called
she wants me to get a guestroom
in my mansionhouse
  so everyone can visit
    and I'm like duh, I will always
try to do that

obvious tryings to get out of it

(songs of yesteryear)

wednesday 25 october 2006

Look here. It’s obvious, all the same. A journal entry is a story is a dialog is a poem. A poem is a garbage can for the brain. And yet, when I sit down here to the blank slate, I have nothing, nothing comes to mind. Gargling gerbils is all I can do. What about abstract expressionism? no, not the movement, but you sitting here, defending yourself, making excuses? Hey, what’s with the bitter attack?

I hate it but really I love to think about these things. When I ride my bike home from work sometimes I pretend I'm showing you around. "Quickly, turn here, yes, see that? That's the beautiful cement factory. Isn't it rugged? Isn't it romantic? I climbed to the top with someone I was in love with a few years ago. Watch out for the bridge; when it's wet your wheels will slip around. We should try not to go down that street. It's full of potholes and there's a trash dump there, too, and sometimes the smell is too much. That place is nice... I'll take you there for coffee later... I know it's a long way, but we're almost there..." And then the ride goes by really fast.

I recently began corresponding with a boy I met in my home town during the first winter when I returned from college. We were together only for six days, and we fell in love. We drove in my father's car up to the foothills. We parked in a scary suburb that's miles and miles up, it feels like a strange, perfect town in the middle of nowhere… a train set. An old-fashioned gas station with pumps that don’t work. A red fire station. Perfect lawns. Tiny, sporadic trees. We parked and drank beer and listened to Built to Spill and I kissed him- it was his first kiss- and then when I left a few days later, hours before I went to the airport to come back to Chicago, we had sex…  orgasms, though it was his first time… We talked on the telephone over the next couple of months… he thought he could get a scholarship to the university of chicago, because he shared the name of one of the main college founders... they said no... we stopped talking, and have only just begun communcations again… But now, since writing, I’m taking him on those bike rides with me, I’m remembering the details, the ways in which we fell... And I love these as I hate them; they’re ridiculous and ill-timed, but I know that I have to have these secrets, and that’s why I am thinking about it all again for the first time in three years. And I'm feeling thoroughly there.

I just got a job at a lingerie store. The bras cost $150. It’s called Trousseau. Ha ha ha. We’ll see…

I hope you’re well, and I thought about you on the 16th of October. You & I, blushing on wooden stools after you guessed my birthday…

I’m afraid, very afraid… but only in the surreal way. In ways where there’s no worry. Of the unreal, impossible.. but this music is no good, here, to describe it at all, and then I think, people actually made this art that is affecting me so, and people are still doing it. and it can be done. I’m thinking these things with a dry enough throat and alone in this dark house, but it isn’t very cold outside, so I’m not afraid for that, and I wish I was more beautiful, same as always, thinner face, better in red lipstick, hair bigger and fuller. And I think, do I really want to go and...? Do I really want to go outside? Aren’t I afraid a little of outside? Yes, a little. Unfortunately… it’s nagging at me, to do that, so I think I will.

Monday 8 October 2007: 10:03 am

My bedroom smells like camping and there’s nothing to do about it.