It's the patterns of my temperment, it's the nature of the experiment, they're taking me in increments

today consisted of washing dishes. feeding the rabbit. scrubbing the kitchen. and rushing to bike to the coaster in simple mintutes. josh and i caught the coaster, biked to the beach, and managed to catch zero waves body surfing and flail around like beached whales. it was fun regardless. we convinced my brother to secretly pick us up, go get booze, and get drunk in my old room at my parents house before a distant-relative barbecue in my backyard. vegan catering by don lucios and whole foods. i'm now near complete immobility. tonight will now either consist of spooning in bed, biking to a show at the treehouse on 35th and c, or the midnight madness bike ride, starting downtown near the star of india.

First went wrong is hard to find
We're paralyzed, we apologize
Our hell is a good life
Last went wrong, where's my prize under the lights
Can we call it in?
We'll be on the road
Can we stop?
When we stop my back will turn your face toward the fence
What I thought it was it isn't now
All this weight, is honest worse
We're moderate, we modernize
till our hell is a good life
All we know what to forget... how to do right
Coloring in the black hole
Can't we stop, when we stop
My hands will shake, my eyes will burn
My throat will ache, watching you turn
From me toward your friends
What I thought it was it isn't now
What I thought it was it isn't
Punishment to stall what is done
What I thought was in is missing out
What I thought it was it isn't now
There's a pattern in the system
There's a bullet in the gun
That's why I tried to save you
But it can't be done

an almost made up poem

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.




i think it's quite appropriate to start off a new outlet in the form of syntax with charles bukowski. i am too worn from sneaking into the Marriott to swim and stealing vegan sloppy joe ingredients with josh to elaborate on much- but i have been have frequent dreams of goonie-type adventures, but falling asleep to nostalgic thoughts of bryan casey (whose ashes i have yet to place in the pet cemetery).

-AM