Odds

there i am, going north on central park, rapid eye movement and cursive keeping me company as i try not to breathe out of my mouth and as i try to make my gait fall in accordance not with nightswimming (because you can't run to that. to that, you can only grow and come-of-age, and i did that yesterday), but to orange crush. from the asphalt to the blacktop to the sidewalk, i see it. right before i end the world, i see it. under the white aid of the streetlight (not an orange glow. some are white, some yellow, some orange, and the differential makes all the difference), i ran right over the beetle.

i murdered something, probably leaving some infants father-less, but i kept on running. the lyrical ballad of the big bang no longer keeping me occupied, i couldn't help but wonder: what are the odds that that happened? what are the odds that at 8:42 p.m. [CST] i, kendall, set out for my nightly jog, and 1.7 miles into it, stepped on a beetle (who could have also been taking his nightly round?). what if i had left my dorm one second sooner? or later? or if he had paused for just a moment? what's more: my right foot did the dirty work. what are the odds that he lucked out, avoiding the wrath of my left, which was undoubtedly a closer threat?

what are the odds?
i want numbers. i want them, on my paper, here, now.
i wouldn't mind having numerophobia in addition to oneirophobia; what's the difference?
that didn't make sense,
and what are the odds? (very likely? oh, how funny.)

holding hands in the dark, from promises to regrets, and back again. panting, mistakes, sweaty successes, i'm a fucking wreck. what are the odds?

[edited for sanity's sake, not that sanity ever did anything for me.]

Beans And Queens

as hurricane kendall ripped through her drawers, she asked,
why don't i have a t-shirt exhibiting my profound adoration of my favorite men with guitars?

she answered,
i don't know.

then came her rebuttal,
oh, yes i do,
I'M BROKE.

i want:
a sports watch.
a toyger.
to remove the bean from its current location and put it in my backyard.
a big, tall, cold glass of ciderrrrrrrrr.
answers.
a better body.
an even better-looking resumé.
a future....

....ooo, too far?


the kings and queens sit and wait.
we sit on top of our cars and watch molly stark put on a show for us;
that's how you know you're still alive.

the kings and queens sit and wait.
we sit on top of our beds and watch others put on a show for us;
that's how you know you're still alive.

and when those two fail?

....ooo, too far?

Il Pleut Des Cordes

it's really like this: the bricks shiny from the rain (always, always, always raining), slippery, a deathtrap from above. i miss walking in that rain. getting off the tube at the wrong stop, homework waiting for me on my desk, but making a visit nonetheless. the hillhead stop always smelled awful, the cold air outside crashing into the warm heat from inside. a child with a cup outside. crowded sidewalks, umbrellas, the walk, the rain, all the rain (always, always, always raining), and people who made my world spin.

there are times when it's appropriate to speak with another person:

on long walks,
around campfires,
and the morning after (sometimes).

i try to speak about things of paramount importance: things that matter.
instead, what comes out are stories about stupid summer boys,
how and why i feel the need to paint my toenails,
my utter disdain for yogurt,
multiregional continuity,
how galaxies collide,
and the rain.

always, always, always the rain.

Here And Piltdown

i think all the missing links are buried in snow somewhere. or, Homo resolution is beneath my house, and i don't really feel like being homeless just yet.

and i sit there, looking at this guy, unable to decipher my own emotions.
that's what my cousin bestowed upon me: a return to normalcy.

regress.
revert.
and that's what i'm saying: we haven't come far at all.
negate.
cranial circumference is now ineffective, and why?
because we let other people have complete control over us.
what, because we decided to stand on our hind legs one day, and never look back,
that makes us kings and queens?

forget that non-honing chewing complex, forget the location of your foramen magnum, forget all of it, because you're nothing. because after all of that, after all of the adaptive successes of your ancestors, you're nothing. because all they have to do is wake up one morning and say that they don't love you anymore, and nothing else will ever matter ever again. forget advanced shifts in mastication, because all of your evolutionary feats mean shit. you're nothing.

but my dear monkey friend,
you're no hoax.
someday they'll find your bones inside this here glass case,
and they'll say, my, how unrefined these ancestors of ours were.

then they'll find my bones, next to yours, clutching my kodak,
and with an absolute dating method, they'll get all their answers.
they'll count my molars and measure my skull,
they'll take my height and examine my brow,
and they'll say,
my, what large brains they had,
but what empty, broken hearts.

All Accounts Accounted For

given my propensity to douse any joyous occasion with desolate spirits, i am most inclined to ask, is this even real?

i've always been about proof. and i just lied to you, because it clearly hasn't always been that way. it's been about hunches, about faith, about predispositions, about an affinity for persons and places i never knew.

but people grow. and they learn better.
on that account and that account only,
i'm the smartest motherfucker that's ever lived.

[you've got everything going for you so i'll go for you with everything i've got]

right here.

"we all have this idealistic notion of who we want to be."
at 40, at 30, at 22.

that girl up there? she's really rad,
and i need you to know something: she's trying so, so hard.

on all accounts, and all accounts only.

Decidophobia

i refuse to digress; in actuality, i just can't. i thought crosswords were keeping me sane, but it is quite the contrary, logistically speaking. (get it?). aver, bray, lode, cannelloni, good god.

i thought if i got some oil on my forehead, everything would be okay. i've got half of you on my side, and the other half...

it's one of those feelings: hey, i know that joke. hey, what are you doing with your life? hey, i'm proud of you. hey, hey, HEY! [here's my excuse.]

it's one of those so-there's-this-guy moments. it's one of those catch-your-breath-shit-a-brick moments. it's one of those i-finally-found-out-what-i'm-good-at-just-don't-tell-my-dad moments. (sick of those triads yet?)

your house always smelled like coffee and mildew. your room was cold and damp like mine. an earwig sprinted across the pillow and you just flicked away, and i'm not sure what scared me more: the bug or your failure to acknowledge my feelings concerning the creature. to escape the divisive moment, i got up.

[and sometimes, the things that kill you are the things you just have to do. and all the choices you think you have are already chosen for you.]

Performance

walking with my head down, kicking a stone, then a piece of paper that flipped itself over in a desperate attempt to get away from my violent attacks, and words: a business card, an appointment time, chicken-scratch of a psychologist, here, on the ground.

i bent over and picked the saving grace up, wondered who had thrown it away, if she'd already thrown it all away, if the body had been dumped, and where. buried ten feet from the coast in a shallow grave? (the dog finds the remains, but we have to wait for confirmation. we know it's her, we know her parents' entire world has come crashing down, we know the war is right here, but we have to wait for confirmation.) dumped? or placed on the floor on her own accord, rather than that of a monster we set free with open arms. dumped?

and dumping is good, i take dumps, and the action brings rewards: pins for a letterman's jacket, making me feel good about myself and making my father proud. taking a shit before a race, a common, unspoken act, our secret weapon: i'd hold the door for lauren and she'd hold it for me, and when people asked how we always won, they'd receive a collective shrug.

acts that we keep to ourselves and never tell anyone are the acts that both define and destroy. on our backs or in a stall, in a car or the middle of the road, or both, we're mysteries to each other. planned executions, planned violations, planned mistakes and planned failures. we exhaust our sincerity in songs and on hallmark cards, nothing left at the end of the day but sweat and empty words, blank stares, collective shrugs, tattered remains, but somehow, i keep on winning.