Repetition Makes An Impression

[so what's another word for desperate?]

there are good people in my life. good, good people. and it terrifies me, you see. i fear my instability, my paucity of genuine emotions, my insufficiency, my failure to recognize my own dissolution, is a disservice to them. the only solution i have at this time would fall incredibly short of a thanks.

the earth isn't melting, we came from monkeys, and i'm just fine.

[you see, it's never bad enough to just leave or give up, but it's never good enough to feel right]

and i don't want this entry to mirror the last,
an unending trail of forlorn sentiments.
and i don't want to continuously expel the same whims.
adhering to monotony is a surefuck way to vanish,
and i'm not entirely convinced that i'm ready yet.

PLUG![1]

not one much for plugs, but srsly:

www.banksy.co.uk

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]