Empty Ships

i almost died an hour after i took this. but, yet, however, i suppose most of us could say that.
a zombie's playground, the bitter cold (it's always so cold, yeah? [just the smell of the summer can make me fall in love]). is it a mistake if you plan for it?

she picks me up in the middle of the night, legs folded under a lonely lamp. under that light we express similar sentiments that echo nothing at all, and i'd kill to have that power back. the ability to look someone in the eye (period), then disgorge information accordingly. i look at her and think to myself (as if i am thinking to anyone else), here we are, old, older, the oldest we've ever been, and she's still here. they're all still here. and why? and why do they keep coming back? i thought i had mastered the ability to abscond, but they always come back. always.

and that's not what i ever wanted to say. [there's a light at each end of this tunnel, you shout, 'cause you're just as far in as you'll ever be out]

people change. we probably shouldn't assume that people will be the same a year and a half later, or even an hour and a half later that same day. but we do. we assume. and we have to.

a familiar vertebrae,
things said you never meant to say.
and at the end of the day, everyone just wants to be someone worth fighting for.

Red Line Romance

freezing cold, dodging into stores to hide, to wait, to finally see you. a reunion of the giants, i say. the windows on the bus cry out in pain with every crack in the street, but don't worry, our leader will fix that, too. the secret weapon is down, winking at a nerdy kid from a neighboring high school, he blushes, and i think, well, isn't that cute? then i get mad: how come nobody ever did that for me? all i got was a bitter old man who thought jesus loved him, a note on my desk, a permanent hatred for mirrors, a mutilated self-esteem, an eternal disappointment, and then, and only then, do you get to date the captain of the football team.

and the crown is in a laundry basket under my bed. silver to brown, one massive joke. but it really did feel good. it really, really did. that i cannot deny. and that night i vowed to betray my father in every single way possible, but failed on all accounts minus one, the greatest possible failure of my life? probably. but when you're eighteen, everything just feels so, so good, and you're so fucking invincible.

we don't want change. what we want is for things to stay the same, but get better. territorial. confused. so utterly confused. the face contorts in the same way that it always did, the gait a step ahead of me but still, from what i gather, the same.

[we're all tired talk when it comes to shove. put up, put out, or stay at home.]

chase me.
chase me, even if i stop looking back.
[if columbus was wrong i'd drive straight off the edge.]

No More Sad Songs

kaylabayla forgot to close our star of david. david, much like my poinsettia, but only not. now that the star is open, the insides spill out. they spill out on the platform of the pulaski stop, onto the orange line tracks, to the loop, to wabash, to fullerton, to the ten dollars from my pocket to buy the vaccines, and there you have it folks, i tried.

story of my life: always trying. and you know what i couldn't stop thinking about today as i rode the bike? i thought: how am i going to protect my daughter from people like you? i suppose you can't. i suppose you can't. i suppose you can't. my mom failed to protect me, i am cursed, i am a curse, i am the curse, and there you have it folks, i tried.

"What came first – the music or the misery? Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music? Do all those records turn you into a melancholy person? People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands – literally thousands – of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don’t know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they’ve been listening to the sad songs longer than they’ve been living the unhappy lives."

--N. Hornby (High Fidelity)

and that's another thing that upsets me beyond reason. you not only own so much of my very being, but so much of what still surrounds me. this movie, that tree, my fucking bedroom for crying out loud, and what's more, my favorite songs. you see? i can't even listen to them now. i am determined, from here on out, to only listen to music that i hate when in the presence of a significant other. that way, when they wake up one morning and decide that they can do better, i will have lost nothing. brilliant! then i can insert the headphones and be at peace once again, and they won't have my words any longer. if it's really all just one big game, then two points for kendall.

Je Fais Semblant

at last, the debut: il s'appelle david.

Fast Times

whenever i see headlights appear behind me on these roads, i assume they are following me. i assume they want to kill me, so i, and myself, engage in a high speed chase, and i've only been pulled over once.
and life is full of regrets.
regrets are everywhere.
like when you're flipping through the radio, resting momentarily on some filth before deciding you can't handle it, only to turn to the next station and catch the last four seconds of your favorite song.
that,
that is regret. if only you would have changed the station sooner, you fuck.

kendall: continue to extricate diabolical disquisition.
kendall, also: retrieve forgotten comrades.
kendall, if you have time: sort life out.

one day, he sent me an email with 27 attached photographs of broken veils, subtle atrocities, and palestinian guts spilling onto the pavement, seven years in the making, the only words in the message reading: : "stay out of things that you'll never understand."

and later that night,
i pushed him off of me and told him to take his own advice.

change the station,
run from headlights.
[we never are what we intend or invent]

Trains In The Trossachs

when i sit on the train i stare at the other passengers,

making up the details of their lives as i please.

i convince myself that i am correct,

that all the individuals i am creating are real; i am playing god.

she pricks her fingers with needles to feel alive,

he would do anything for the man that he loves.

where is my happy ending? he asks.

no such thing, she replies.

the small thing is crying.

he won’t amount to anything at all.

that one over there though,

he might.

time will tell.

time will open blisters and fill with the salt of the sun,

and you will open your pretty brown eyes

and you will look the hell around,

and you will be sad. just like me.

pain, just like me.

eventually you’ll know everything and tell nothing, like me.

only me.

they say,

keep fighting the good fight

and everything will fall into place.

i can only think of a few things that are worth fighting for,

and they’re not even real.

About A Boy

You held my right arm as Tyler pulled my
shoe off. The bone had just snapped moments before,
and moments before that I had just told you off,
told you that I wish I'd seen your S10 wrapped around a tree

the previous night; I begged and implored and slapped
you in the face but you drove off dizzy regardless.
I'd driven dizzy for you before though, too (the lines on
the street blurring together, smiling at the fuzziness and

being trapped in your gangly limbs that could wrap around
us both twice, and you did it). The bubbly lime on my
lips, fresh like the Bowling Green air that night, you
keeping Coop from getting his ass kicked: he's "from the streets."

And then there was that kid trying to break down Beth's door
so I just hid and you soon joined, but I never asked you to.
The only thing I ever asked you to do you didn't; you
enjoy cement shoes in the white trash halo of Ohio, and in

the morning Brandon gave me that look, a look that
perpetuated my happiness and haunts my memory, just
like your taillights did, dizzy and drunk and driving into the
darkness, while the bone just ends up snapping and I'm just 400 miles away.

A Pleasant Discovery

not wanting to speak
too soon,
i will still say that then,
i found you.

Lines For Later

when the voices of boys scream you to sleep, when the foreign sun sheds light on your familiar disaster, when you look out his window and see what you won't admit, when you crawl back into bed and pretend to be proud, when high school romances come back to haunt you, when you pull out the coat that is that much thicker than the one before, the one you bought over there, when you were happy (?), when you’re back, when you were happy (?), when the wood on the porch cries out in pain and everything stops making sense, as if it ever did, when you were somewhere different last year with someone else, when the cigarette smoke spells out your name in the crisp ohio sky, when they roll their eyes, when you make them disappear, when you remember back in the day, scooting away, the monte carlo, sheltered and desperate, whips of sensation in places you’ve never been, when you make the executive decision to never turn back, when you simultaneously waste your breath and lose it, when you stop remembering and stop forgetting, when you stop being young, when you never stop growing up.

as a side note // people don't write enough about their pets, the things they did that they are ashamed of, and you know what? i don't think we write enough about broken hearts. i don't think we could ever write enough about broken hearts. about broken hearts. broken, broken hearts.

as a side note // though i am utterly terrified of them, i would much like to be a part of some secret society. moreover, i would much like to be something.

Duties

through the creaking
drops the egg; let's hope not.
i tire of cleaning up mess,
so come get your stupid cat
(if you want to).
through the shaking
drops the egg; let's hope not.
i feel omnipotent when i open
the drapes for your stupid cat,
come get her
(if you want to).
through the gripping
drops the egg; let's hope not.
the cat calls your name,
and i tell her you're never coming
back, but the stupid cat won't listen
(and you don't want to).
and through the crying
drops the egg, and we hoped not,
so it didn't,
and your only responsibility,
now,
is your stupid cat.

Mozart

i should stop being so ambiguous.

class started yesterday. and so it begins,
now,
again,
and for the last time, i think.

[can't stop, addicted to the shindig]

again with the white on black, black on white, except this time they are slender slabs of a latent talent which i dream about possessing. CDE, FGAB. marvelous, marvelous.

i like the ones that get away. i like the hunt, i like the aftermath. i like forgiving people you should not forgive, i like holding grudges forever. why did you stop talking to me? well, i to you and you to i, remember? it was all okay, because we were both in love with someone else. it was all okay, because we were both in love with someone else. an octave higher, an octave lower, but it was all okay.

then, give or take some. back behind a table, feeling like i'm doing something with my life, lying very loudly to your face, my fake dreams and ambitions rattling around against your eardrums, but shit, you got so much faith in me, don't you?

and so,
inception. commencement. chapter one.
we were never really good at goodbyes anyhow.

The Slush

is everywhere, here. cars slide by on muddy snow, the sound rhyming with the crunching of metal and the pounding of hearts and being home for the holidays. i'd be safe and warm [if i was in L.A.].

arms extended at my side, letting my fingers hang as long as the bones will go, air wrapping around them, thinking that if my arms extended but a few inches more i'd scrape the pavement, dusted orange by the streetlights.

and i stand there, with arms that are too long,
scrape, scrape, scrape,
on the cool, wet pavement,
and as the ice freezes on the windshield,
i wonder if this is how it's supposed to be.

arms still down, tilting my head back, shoulders becoming a rest, the sky is so quiet, my personality so insipid, i think: motivation needs a point and an issue implores enthusiasm. oh, hey, last chance.