outside

(no subject)

always the falling dreams, ever since I was six. ever since I remember. always the same.
shitty streetlight at the end of my road, the one that flickered off white, above the empty church parking lot. always started the same; hovering above, just long enough to to set familiar scene, mood, long enough to mouth "I know this" and then, free-fall.
a plummet, an ecstatic plummet, concrete visible but still impossibly far away. I remember the awful quiet of it, silent street and no screams and how once I fell fast enough, I couldn't breathe. a lot of people have these dreams, but I didn't know that then. I just knew that once I fell asleep, I was going to start falling and there was nothing, NOTHING I could do and that right before the awful splatter, right before everything I was too young to dread the ground would black out and I'd be just above the same shitty streetlight, off-white enough to be unmistakable, hovering just long enough to know that I would be falling again and again until I resigned myself to it.
grew to love it.
grew to waitwaitwait and never,
never did I question why.
outside

(no subject)

we don't have any, what you'd call, "smooth operators" here. just local heroes. you'd never notice them in one of the fashionable cities, no sir, they'd lose like stars against streetlights. emily has super big big blue eyes, and she's known enough soccer players to worry that they're the reason we all hang on her every word. trevor loves rod mckuen, horses, and new sneakers the way little boys love their own mother, shiny red fire engines, and new sneakers.

she paints her own bones as if to say, "look under your skin. we're both beautifully functional. stop making all that fuss over my stupid pretty face."

I know I'll never be more than just a birdwatcher here.
outside

(no subject)

I had a girlfriend who's mother looked me up on google. we hit it off exceedingly well, but halfway through our relationship she inexplicably soured on me. perhaps it was due to spambots linking my name with "Round and Brown Pussy", a site that truely describes itself.

also, according to imdb.com, I was a wardrobe consultant for a short film shot in northampton. my inner homo is getting more insistant every year.
glare

(no subject)

when you're submitting to def poetry jam, do they want a couple of poems that are in the 2-3 minute range, or do they want one VHS tape that doesn't go over 2-3 minutes?
primitive

immediately after the speech, FOX cut to "Brawling Beer Bellies" on the Jerry Springer Show.

maybe its the infrequency with which they happen these days and maybe its the lack of sleep, but I have to say that was the most fascinating and human presidential address I've seen in quite a long time. even the dichotomy between the speech (which was pretty awful) and the unusually long interview portion (which was the strangest mix of emotions I've ever seen bush go through). at times he seemed slumped and defeated, at times almost childishly excited and optimistic, and at times simply frustrated and angry with a world that clearly didn't understand or agree with him. as an artist, what better palette can you ask for? and as an american, you should find a copy of it on the internet and watch it. because the text of the speech itself is as useless as any political speech; it says more about the speechwriter who's trying to keep his job than it does the person reading it. and the interview...well, depending what segments you copy-and-paste, the right wing analysts to hail it as his greatest triumph and the left wing analysts will hold it up as further proof that he's a tyrannical illiterate madman. and really, having some blogger tell you your opinion on something you didn't witness is poor form.

maybe I'll write something a little more coherent about it when I've made a pot of coffee, but probably I'll just stick to my policy of not discussing politics in overly public places.