Let's burn this filthy town

It's ironic.

That a Fiction Major wannabe cannot write a single sentence, cannot fragment a solitary paragraph, or evolve a strong subject of ideas. I used to believe I had a talent. I like rhythm. This entry has none, because I've lost it. Like my god damn keys, or something? You know, it's not really "writer's block." I've thought it could be. But that's when you're almost done, and you stumble into a fire engine red brick wall. My problem? I can't even start. I have no ambition, no yearning, no desire. Anymore to begin.

The last time this happened, my best friend left me. Sounds like no big deal. She was my breathe, and she swept away. I remember her words, and I feel my chest collapse within my body. My eyes begin to burn, but water falls. My stomach drops out for lunch. I don't usually get it back until the following Tuesday's evening. Now imagine---that's just from the recall. It was harder when she'd said them.

I am retentive. Look it up and my name is the definition. Because I hold onto that best friend like I'm dangling over the Pompeii Volcano in a different lifetime. Every silence I awkwardly elapse into, is a thought about her. Every breathe I quickly recede back into my lungs is a sharp reminder; it's her. So with her memory constantly invading my mind, surrounding my thoughts, and effecting my bodily vital systems, it's no surprise I would relate everyday occurrences to her, right?

People talk. They always will. They will call you out in front of groups of your friends. And you'll deny everything, or at least, you did. I'd hope that with me, you couldn't be ashamed. But then you grab his hand like your positive energy is bound to it, and all I can think of is that smile you had over me when we were in my sheets. At my house, in my bed. You say you don't really remember it. Then we did it sober...

But the outcome is still the same. No change in our relationship. Not sure if I'm even ready, I'm waiting for her, remember? You always seem to keep that in your mind, how could you let my feelings for you slip by? Maybe it's lust, maybe it's real. Either way, it's practically over before it's started. It's beautiful.

You're going to miss this. And if she'd just ask, I'd make the decision to stay in College Park. For however long it takes, as long as there's a chance. I have plans for my old best friend and I; for her to love me. I don't think it would take too much. Your mind always makes it harder. But if I don't think about it, I can't imagine my preference, and be disappointed.

Back when I was still an automated answering machine, I'd always say 'hello.' When that got old, I tried to say goodbye. But I remember how my playback button broke, I found myself abandoned soon. Just another technological device in need of repair. My numbers got dusty... nobody ever touched me. Eventually, even my smooth black finish faded. My batteries melted within their container. I was junk and no one liked me. I was replaced... by a shiny new answering machine. Then my days were over, my wires and configurations unplugged themselves. I found myself in the trash. From the dump, came a new perspective. 'Cause once you've hit the bottom of the bag, there's no way but out. I'm happy now.

I'll do it the old indian way; CP will be in frame. Blindly, I'll pay to have the ink nailed, ironically. It's the summer of tattoos. We've all got them. My friends make me feel bad ass. I have two.

I remember being twelve, not so long ago. Mom explained why grandpa has "SW" on his arm. I understood, and I swore to have it imprinted on me at eighteen. At seventeen, I learned that he blew his brains out. but mom swears evil mary did it.

I've still got my mind stuck on a year ago, and every time I blink, I watch the most beautiful scenes from you and me. I want so bad to take care of this mess. Sweetheart, if you'd say the word, I'd stay. Or I'd set you up in the city near me. Or we could run away together. But I can't do it alone, because I believe you need to be saved as well.

I'm a Pilot.

Where did propriety leave this? Indignity and profanity; professionally wrapped with a glitzy gold ribbon and bow. How do you fall in love? Oh, there she goes; with all her demented perspectives of this place. and Love with love unrequited, and romeo with his cigarettes. Yuck. Spinning desire of sunshine state blood? You have lost your damn mind. Uproariously canny was more than two days ago; now it's just annoying. I don't think you know your choices and I know you don't love that. What do you? What are you seeing when eyes are closed? Memories-dreams-visions-hopes? or E) none of the above. Let's see those cheeks rose up.

There is no such thing as redemption. No matter what, it's not erased. It's not forgiven either. Because forgiveness is bullshit. There's only the future. And that's really all that matters. There's obscenity and obesity, curious and inquiries, medicine and infirmaries. But there's feelings in between. There's fatality and virginity; longevity and felicity. You can't fall with railings, unless it's raining. That is a completely different novel; a notion undefined.

but defied, because orders are orders and promises are lies meant to be broken eventually. Technicalities; you thought about it, and that's a sin. You're a goddamn sinner, how does that make you feel?

Your body is made of water. And water runs. Water flows, and it can knock over buildings. In waves, it can drown entire cities. It can kill people. And then--it can save people. That's true beauty; being both good and evil at the same time. Knowing the danger and still going for a swim. Because water will be there for you when you need it, right? When your thirsty, when you're sweaty. That's human/ personification.

Everyday you played sick, your family wasted fifty bucks. My mother spent thousands on just my absences, and that's a catholic education. Funny, Jesus never charged for parables, no entrance fee at church. You know, He never made the twelve apostles wear the same clothes, either. He never bought them BMW's. Oh, but it's in the past; mine, at least, and that's a relief.

Poor Thomas from Washington. Maybe there's a reason he's on his bike at midnight, other than being lost. Well, in my defense, he was blonde and looking for colonial. Maybe he got mugged, or maybe he's a dealer? Maybe he's got a girlfriend he's gonna marry in Sweden once he finds a way to bicycle across the atlantic. Either way, I couldn't help. I still feel like a jerk about it.

message in a bottle

I miss you. Because when it finally seems like I've ripped you out of my mind, something occurs and all I can remember is how I leaned on you. How you took care of me. and stroked my hair, coddled me on the phone, told me it was okay. That's all I can think of. Exactly how much do I wish I could call you, cry to you, and have you tell me it's gonna be alright? I'd give anything for your comfort right now. I just want my best friend back. You were the easiest to cry in front of, the one person I could be completely honest with, and know that you'd still love me. THere was ever a single secret I didn't confide in you, up to the very end. I want you here now, sitting next to me, with your hand in mine, crying with me, and letting me know that you love me.

Because no matter how horrible everything seemed, looking back; it was all made simple with you. You could smooth away any situation. With you at my side, I'd survive against anything. and now, when I feel like I need you most, there's nobody. Not a single person to take your place. You were one of a kind, my thorn amongst the roses. You were constant. I liked that.

I get headaches trying not to cry, now. I get migraines from just trying to forget. I can drink and smoke and pretend I don't still feel a void. But I do. I feel your absence constantly. I miss you every second, I think about you everyday. You're the sadness, the absence, the pain. You're every thought I have that's against the persona I'm attempting to convey. That awkward silence is you. It's you because it's quiet, it's careless, it's cruel, and thats exactly you in every word.

I want to call you right now. I know those ten digits by heart--another useless artifact of my history forever imprinted in memory--***8031642. I'm not stupid. You wouldn't answer. And i feel shitty enough without you just making it worse.

I wonder every single day why you don't care about me anymore. How you could just go from being my best friend, to some distant observer. But really, it happens all the time. I never imagined you were that ordinary. I think i held you up too high on your pedestal. I think I expected too much from you. And when the going got tough---you ran. That is how situations end up this way, with me begging for you, and you ignoring me.

I like to think you're pretending. But I'm a wishful thinker.

The party's over with power outages. As June approaches, withering minds try to focus because our finals effect graduation. Jumping is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. And he's on that ledge, soaking wet, holding a blue cup of rum, and persuading me to take deep breathes. It's fifty feet or so. And you know you'll survive, but the ride down is nauseating especially when you've been drinking. These are wanton acts of teenagery, part duex.

We have officially lost our minds. "This pool closes at nine" orders from the security guard, but it's not his problem because "my mommy said I ain't gotta be in the room 'til midnight. I ain't goin' nowhere, 'n I ain't scared a no one." Apostrophe at it's finest, and alcohol at it's highest. Let's say---fifty feet, hmm? And land in a creek like a wrecking ball. You're cute when you're calling me stupid, and telling me to put on my clothes.

Liquor is my problem, not yours. I have wine with my chores. I wash my face with miller, and rinse my hair in heineken. It feels. It just does. Like captain is in my blood, and nicotine in my veins. Maybe this is fate? To die from alcohol poisoning. It's a little too elitist, but I'm sure they'd understand.

The Jumptree is a microcosm of high school. The ledge is senior year, the water is the future, and I'm perched above, scared out of my mind to do what I've done before, and hit the water, and feel the pain. The slack-nailed pieces of plywood to climb the tree are actually the first three years and middle school. If you fall off there, you're sort of fucked. Small balls is community college. I never jump there. What's the literary term for taking an analogy too far? I have now reached uproariously canny. and oversitting my unboundaries with pleasant confoundaries. The zip line is true to its word. That's absurd, you've forgotten about the canaries we saw last fall, you are. Oh, leander. Oh, nine. Oh, hell.

Say goodbye to nonperishable items. and hello to refrigerator madness! Thank you for distributing your empathy for ungrateful symphonies of cacophonous limericks. I am Limerence. And I have accepted this.

truly beloved.

Clever sidewalk, oh thickened hallway of grotesque youth. maybe it's near a derivatives by denotation. The place doesn't matter, it's about the meeting. Your knees are going to quiver; cliche. Your heart is going to rebuild the mayan ruins and climb the mexican plateau all in 3.5 seconds flat. Tsunami? That's nothing. With just your glance, you'll redesign the earth's pulsating, radiating, and excitable core; your core will meander, as well. You'll lose your virginity before you say hello.

When Leander utters such precious tones of vocal chords, the ground will shatter beneath you. His maimed groove of stylistic demeanor is rocketing off the walls, like the snap of your bra-strap after only a few more minutes of him drinking your pleasure, and you participating in his covertness. and you won't have even spoken yet.

If he greets you, which he's viable to not, you've peaked his arousal. are you blond? are you cherry? well, you're female. 'twill do. Leander cares not for squander, for formality, he's not looking for something serious this evening, or any between the sheets. He'll say goodbye before you remember your name, and thank him. He doesn't yearn to be thanked; and he won't recall your plow, let alone a moment of forgetting your well-bred mannerisms.

He has beauty pinpointed to a form of seduction. You can't be pretty, if he deems you unworthy. Leander. The sex-drive you feel for a flash when you relive your impure fantasies is just how he'll infatuate the brain cells you have left.

When Leander speaks to me, I have the right, by writ, to address him by his name. He's custom to kiss a cheek, and press my body close to his, but only to demonstrate a previous affection. My affliction is history, mystory, herstory. This disease is unattractive, and he seals our scope with binding commendation. Half a decade ago, I was his, and he was mine. Before he became the Leander of prime. Just a little boy. Did I force his objectification of women upon him with my selfish act of thirteen-year-old lust? Was that original sin, that taste of skin, the very reason he's turned into the Leander he is? The women who fall for him are imbeciles. I'm the one they can learn from.

studying for my AP exam.

These words are accented. They are prominently distinguished in their pronunciation. The fluer-de-lis on my hip is an allegory; it means something other than it is. and I did that on purpose, as the author of such ink. Preaching such approval, I found a fine alliteration; the repetition of initial consonant letters (sounds.) We're like Romeo and Juliet. Allusion. A reference to history; like you leaving me, or other literature, like Shakespeare.

Anapest; understand is, two unaccented syllables followed by one accented. If i add in some more understands, it's anapestic meter. I have a dream = Anaphora. I should know that from honors english three. Apostrophe more than grammatical imagery, A figure of speech in which I talk to you like you're here, when you're evidently not. Approximate rhyme? It's like imaginary numbers...I'm attempting to guess the answer. Assonance; the repetition of middle vowel sounds. hat. ran. and. amber. maybe even vein, maine, insane. Oh yes I am; I'm studying for AP Literature and Composition. Aubade. dawn. morning. love. that's easy. Annabelle Lee, maybe? Ballad. Sweeney Todd. Cacophony is harsh, euphony is not. Caesura. Grammatical pause. The connotation is a suggestion beyond the meaning, denotation is its definition meaning. Consonance, final consonant sounds. Book. plaque, think(er.) Dactyl. The opposite of Anapest. starts with accent, ends in two unaccented. If I'm trying to teach you something through poetry, it's Didactic. politely, rightly, double rhyme, duh. Iambic and trochaic are both duple meter. ababcdcdefefgg = Shakespearean or English sonnet. as apposed to Petrarch Italian.

Appealing ceiling is feminine rhyme. That's interesting, why? Hyperbole, See "Overstatement" wow, since when? Imagery= A representation through language of anything involving your five god-given senses. "Appealing ceiling is feminine rhyme" and that sentence is internal rhyme because a rhyme occurred within the line. There I go again!

Irony. The firehouse burned down? That's situational. Verbal Irony: When the pot calls the kettle black (but thats a figure of speech). Like when I say "You're Gay." haaaa

Dramatic Irony: when the author implies a different meaning by what the speaker said.

Situational Irony; Twelfth night. It's kind of like... How everyone ends up happy in the end, but then gets exploded, or what you will. Dramatic Irony is also when the audience knows something the speaker does not. which can also be situational.

abbaabba, adding either cdcdcd, or cdecde, is officially Petrarch Italian. Limerick my Limerence, I know what this shit is. Masculine rhyme: simple rhyme. Like sad, mad, fad, bad. Easy to remember; men are simple, too.

Metaphor: a comparison NOT using like, or as. Simile; a comparison using LIKE OR AS.

Metonymy. A figure of speech in which one detail or situation is used to represent the entire situation. synecdoche is involved;; the part against the whole.

Octave: 8-lined stanza. That's in Italian. Onomatopoeia. BOOM. Overstatement- see hyperbole. Well THAT was useful. It's an exaggeration.

Oxymoron: paradox like "Brave Slytherin" or "cold fire"

Paradox: The whole situation of oxymoron: like why would a Pro-abortion poster be in the republican mayor's office? That's irony, too, I believe, we'll see. Which is internal rhyme. feminine. I got this. Paradoxical Statement; when something doesnt seem to make sense in itself, but it's true.

If it's rhetorical, it's naturally spoken, through pause, through rhyme, through life. It's unanswered, honestly. Think back to Anapest and Dactyl...now try Spondee...when two rhyming words are equally accented...true..blue.

My favorite word. Synesthesia. When something is portrayed as one sense, when it's typically another. I heard the colors in the painting? Trochee...think back to Anapest....Dactyle...and Spondee...when there is one unstressed, and one stressed...this is "E...asy"

Hardest one? villanelle. a nineteen-line fixed form consisting of five tercets rhymed aba (three-lined stanzas) and a concluding quatrain (four-lined stanza) rhymed abaa, with lines 1 and 3 of the first tercet serving as refrains in an alternating pattern through line fifteen and then repeated as lines 18 and 19.

WHAT THE FUCK? am I supposed to be a robot?!

You have now reached uproariously canny.

From talk to shock, and rock is all we got. Roll fell down the rabbit hole while scissors cut sinners, so now there's blood on the hardwood flooring. Everything was shit in Connecticut and then it's comforted. Truly, it's pouring, or pooring, when the bottom of the rock has chipped and torn holes within your socks. and now we've contracted financial AIDS, and an untreatable strain of the swine flu. Way to go, Mexico.

We'll ride scooters on vacation in fall. and throw dirty vegetable at golden subway ladies. Ninjas do not adhere to bedtime, or common florida law. friday nights are back.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. Knock three times, I'll answer just as many. 'Cause I hate you, but I think about you everyday. While everyone else was perfecting their skills, I was falling in love.

Self-diagnosed with bereft limerence; I'm a doctor ninja, too. Baby, I can take it. You can. I shake when I see you, and cry when far away comes on cause that's our song. Happy birthday. I thought about you every second and that's my present for you.

The state of being infatuated or obsessed with another person, typically involuntary, and characterized by a strong desire

for reciprocation of one's feelings but not primarily for a sexual relationship.

Welcome, disease. and say goodbye to propriety. We're purging our friendships again and dealing such method to misdirected fools. We're phillip screwdrivers lost in a toolbox of flatheads. I'm moving. this summer. I'm home.

I don't have anything else to write about, and even if I did, it would all suck. So much for making a living out of this.

The best fright of our lives.

It's really as simple as just mesmerizing the key board. so when I type for the thirty-third time, you know I love you. and when dick comes searching for his thirty three grand, we'll know exactly which policeman put it into the evidence locker.

We both won a trip to Vegas. and I'm planning on marrying this boy.

You're the heart, the sunglass man. and you have yet to grow into those eyes. Everyone yearns to learn themselves. Everyone. We're not exclusionary, we're inclusionary. Whoa, BIG difference. We're motel muggers, tree huggers, and snotty little buggers. We're an alienation. But we have drinks and they're tasty. We slam. and when we do, they call the cops, and we jump out windows, over fences, or on trampolines. We're prepositionally adequate because we know where we are. but after a few, we forget exactly who, and it's a glitch we're getting fixed. We have nothing of pride, but pride, for pride, for the love of college park.

Or altamonte. We're in foreign waters and purple flashing submarines are anchoring our position. We're vividly on GPS scanners, searching for 7/11, twenty-four-seven. We are born lever-pullers with crooked teeth and empty wallets. People have dreams of us. of "we."

We are Florida stars, wayward teenage angst in velvet tuxedo pressure. We wear ourselves out with satire. We are the talk that mommies and daddies sit their children down for after watching a graphic lifetime movie. We're the General Surgeons warning on the side of cigarette packs, and the tape that holds crumby trailer parks together.

Without us... we're just eye. That's a horrid thought. If we're alone, we're prone to question and that's never a good idea. We're prom night. No, really, we're on the cover of every trucker magazine you ever saw in a rest station public stall. We're the writing on the wall. Or the ceiling, we're not picky, we're friends. We have names. And they're important, because that's what we call each other. We use mirrors like aluminum foil, wrap ourselves up and fold into together. We are on our way to the gether. We're wordplay and innuendo. We are just memory. And we have a habit of fading.

Perestroika.

What Joy remarked to the fairest: I can't lose you. Not like my keys, but in similar degrees. I need you. More than you need your boys. It gets stronger with every step down Edgewater Drive.

Where would we be without Kissimmee? You'd prove yourself in a cabaret, I'll the be the cash within your lingerie. If coffee's for closers, then openers are posers with blacklight smiles engraved on their face. You're the "A" in headache. You're like a wind-chime for the deaf, or the sunlight to the blind. You're everything but mine. And it's cruelly stabbing the throbbing burns from our front-porch-sagas. I don't think I'll believe you this time. Change has come. You're the assignment I continually forget to submit in english. You're the Gorbachev to my Glasnost; the fuse to a dynamite-lined mirror in my hallway containing the closet I pitched camp in.

I will not be the calendar this year.

A multimillionaire, of all forms, found a dancer to finance his love with. And I feel like her, clad in stud belts and headed for California mountains to start an industry in something still illegal. We'll call it "Summer," I suppose. The eleven train swings by. And I watch your video more than I go to class because I miss you, I love you, and all that cliche sob story.

Tell me where musicians fingers meet lavished prince's paupers; as unlikely as Draco and Ginny. It's oxymoronic, and that's sort of the point, isn't it? I have built things, I have composed word, and it's gorgeous. I constructed a desk, all on my own, and I wrote an extensive prologue, by myself. And everyone should be proud because it isn't school, but it's an application, nonetheless. and It's in April, which is surprising to me. These are wanton acts of teenagery.

This is where mighty meets the might-haves. Where sober college-bounders take fourteen hour naps. And where we all came from, before we spread around. There's fifty states in this tiny place, let's construct a plan to see each one, perhaps. This is our town?

This is our problem; we're stuck here. Wayward and wary and worried, uncanny, we're bored. There's more than Friday nights of coolers and ice. Though, I couldn't exactly explain right now.

And, hopelessly, with less than two months, I finally bought a table to hold what I'm capable of

radioimmunologically.

It's hard work playing the victim in April. Not when there's drizzle to wash your smiles, and puddles to soak your toes in. How could anyone ignore such a dazzling stratosphere once March has ended and April descended? There's twenty-nine days in this month. No, don't argue with me, it's true.

He's a boy of design. The rare man who finds daisies in Grant Park concrete. and when he plucks them, he unravels the entire world, string by string, tearing it apart and discovering every essence it ever had. He sees all of that before he rips the stem from the ground, but he does it anyway, because he enjoys watching it come apart. That's his gift; his deal. We all want to be designers. like Gage. We all want to have words that mean something, and stories that inspire, and talents that make skeptics eat their notepads.

I don't. I don't want to have to pick the daisy. I wonder if it's possible to see it all without having to destroy it. There's something in flight when you realize what could've been lost. As opposed to what you lost a year ago, more than a year, and how much of a difference it makes. How much of a difference she makes. She isn't a girl of design. I quite appreciate that.

An ode to Dani. I sure hope you're reading this...

So when the Cyrus siren sounds of CVS have got you down, and technological waves of strobe lighting paradise are eating at your brains, as the blue mountain dew is epically frustratingly sour as consumers consume your indifference, when the vanity of sanity has lost all it’s gleam, though this time it can seem that travesty is unavoidable, it’s controllable, I swear.

There, amidst some dark blue cotton, and vixen red lining true around your collar, buttons and sleeves, is where you can find me. Me, matching for eight hours, your attire, but lacking such flare or considerable stylistic appropriationalism. Me, trailing through an alcoholic’s intolerance for Bishop Moore kids, who does not what one should, but rather what one cant, is where a classic case of anti-emotional immune efficiency syndrome can.

And within these whitewashed fluorescent ceilings and master masters of sales or receipts, is where two unheard-of forces meet. That’s you and me. In CVS for eternity.

To Be Continued...

E'redai

I think about you everyday.

When the coffee pot is hours late and raccoons are attacking the attic door, and the mailman missed us by inches, and all I want is to go back to sleep!!! See Mariah... using irritated skin serum on her fingers to cruelly extract strands of black curly hair. turn the page. Now we can watch Mariah purposefully "lose" the index card with a romantic-grunge-king's cell digits imprinted on it in disgusting black ink. Say hello to Spring. 'hi' to cyanide.

How could this have happened? I can't... fix it, except by leaving. That hurts, too. You s-a-v-e-d me. It's more serious than suicide. I wouldn't have made it this far with a personality if you were not there. and I would've lost everything I had inside me if you hadn't goaded it on, in the best way imaginable. You made me want to be myself again. I cant repay that. this is what I did; I think I ____ __ ____ ____ ___.

and I would say it. but that can't fix it; just make it hurt more. your name's still in my browser. and I have to delete it soon. fuck. I don't know how this happened, I'm so sorry.

The best part about us was that you were untouchable. I never wanted you like that. I never... liked you that way. Even though some people thought that. I knew I didn't. Until now.

oh fuck. I can't lose you like her. I can't. Not after you helped me get over that... only to lead me back to it. I won't do it. what am I going to do now?

Maybe we meant it.

They'll write stories about us one day; hell, I will. We'll be read to children before they close their eyes or assigned to high schoolers for thesis papers. College professors will recommend they read us so as to reach an understanding of what true tragedy is. We'll be a prerequisite, a requirement, whichever one that fits. We'll be the title in the summer reading or part of the class summary. Because I promised I'd make you famous, and the pages will write themselves for us. Everyone enjoys a nice horror story, and we're the ticket, baby.

The introduction is the last letter you wrote me, and chapter one is when I met you. God forbid, but chapter two is how I lost you already. And the following fifteen chapters are a recollection of the memories that brought us to this point. We're good for literary analysis, as well, because we're distraught with foreshadowing and flashbacks. Fifty ways to hold you close. Thirty ways to hug a fried in need. That's chapter three. I'd tell you the ending, but right now it's a toss between early death [suicide, of course] or a poetic manifesto on moving on with life. Both suck. And it's too friendly to write a synopsis on how we could've solved the problem; us.

We'll be in Oprah's book club. Dr. Phil will use us to help counsel his patients. And every soul-driven adult will buy us to pass the time while their spouses cheat on them. Pre-teens will see their older siblings engrossed in our binding and ask for us for christmas. There'll be misgivings, but their parents will wrap us up anyways. That's the beauty of fads, and we'll be the newest trend.

It isn't about the money. Getting paid is the least of my worries. Maybe if a paragraph or two could help me understand, help me deal, then the book has served its purpose. It's not about everyone else's reaction; just yours. Because when you read the dedication and see your name; You'll know I've kept good on my promise. Just wait for it. Unsuspectingly, you'll turn the page and get lost in regret; yours, not mine. The book is how I will solve myself; and I'll hope against hope that maybe it can reach you, too.

I'm not afraid anymore. Let the novel be my testament against everything that went. For this is for you, and for you this will be the closing argument. the end.

You're my Dorian Gray

God was not an option. He couldn’t help the sweater queen in her dire time of need. Praying wasn’t worth the energy to fold her hands; my hands. The licorice ropes of semi-sweet artificial flavoring did more for the soul than monotone chanting ever could. That’s how gluttony makes birth, through doubt of the church. And I’m sorry to explain that I’m the repeat offender. Consider revising your semicolon usage. There’s a grammatical error in my strut and an arrest warrant pending for my confidence. Which is why I turned away from the idea of God. This isn’t ‘alcoholics anonymous’; I’m not required to surrender myself to anything but love. Love, that doesn’t exist anymore. It’s all condoms and doors, for now. Sperm and suicide, I guess. Shuffled responses, averted glares, and we’re stopping revolving windows in their tracks. We can’t slam them; they’re circumferential.

When I found the hope to care, it was too late. It was March in September-time. There’s a crackling pop of incendiary regret and I keep it under lock-in-key in my safety deposit box below the mattress. And even if I could play the piano, I would refrain from creating a ballad; need I be reminded by keys and tunes of how much I can’t bear being without you, now that I’ve had you. I don’t want to be alone. I’m having a difficult time losing you. Every time I seek out to find you, you just keep hiding again, like this is some perverted game. I don’t play that way. Consider this my white flag; I’m through with trying to salvage these feelings, where I’m the victim of the dreams you’re living out.

There are dugouts dedicated to us. Parking lots, too. Places where we met over and over again to the extent that we could be remembered. I know you do; but you can go on and pretend you don’t. There’s leniency in the empathy I have for you. I know you’re in pain, but I also know you don’t like to show it, as opposed to my methods of causing your unraveling. I loved you and love is what love does. Our love does not exist; therefore, love itself doesn’t either.

There is so much gorgeous beauty in how I lost her. From the rising action, to it's climax, and the lack of a resolution. It's pretty and feminine; therefore artistic and flirty. I should thank her, because everything what happened is what happened to me. People do change. Or, they become masterful at concealing their old ways. I like the change. It's romantic how there's two of her; the one I loved, and the one she is now. It's remarkable how similar, yet opposing their characteristics are. I find myself indifferent to version 2.0, that's not the one that captivated me. So why do I even dream of having her back, when she's a clumsy remodel of the girl I cherished? exactly. I don't. And I have finally come to terms that the original masterpiece that consumed me is just that; a portrait hanging within my memory. She doesn't exist in the real world, as a painting doesn't. She's a fleeting thought or whim. She's an impulse from a previously suppressed desire. I love that about her; both of her. I can carry her picture wherever I go, and it can be torturous at times, but also relieving. Sometimes, if I pretend the girl I fell in love with is still alive, I can survive the trivial pains in life. But that's all it is; pretending. Because she is gone forever. And I couldn't be happier that I have the power to preserve her in my mind for even longer than forever, while the real girl, the true physical manifestation of my adulterous obsession, continues to pursue a meaningless sequence of existence, I have her previous self, making history in my brain. No one can ever take that from me. Not even her; either of her.

When chapter one is just an introduction.

So the bigotry was vodka-ridden, this isn't kindergarten; it's christian. The drunken melody of a sob story is nothing more than rock N' roll in a bar. There's Irish brew and static pews of prayer, let's chant and sing for saints we celebrate. We know nothing we're human and fickle. Light up this clear white sky and send the rockets for the stars, if they land we're genius, if not, we'll bail out. Or abort, it's sort of the trend these days.

The radio dials tune a song I know all the words to, shock. and we're not going to third cause first and fifth were just as previous, if that ever could make some sense. It's poetry, it's prophetic, that's bullshit if my fingers ever grazed the semicolon, love.

I get to spend a delicious hour in the bacon hallway with syrup dripping from the ceiling. And the mighty dinosauric eighteen wheelers that drive by have sex tunes from the 1940's. The guy in the hat, he stops. and he asks me the advantage of bagging the milk. I thought that was funny.

It's co-ed, it's venture, it's crap; it's the triumvirate fracture, love.

Stop everything. Of all the absolutes, you're sincerely the most indefinite. La Vie Expulsion, I will never forget it. I knew March was coming, I should've prepared. There will be a March eleventh every year for the rest of my life. Love to love through it, strife for death and matches, lovers need light-switches, and liars need instances. Let it roll, let it rock, let it be?

If all you need is love, my love, we're fucked.

Stand by nothing; no morals amongst the moral-less. Sit in class, call it class, or it's trash. In a bin; talent. Whatever did Mr. Robinson have to say when he heard of his wife's affair?

I'm still taken with violins. They screech when they're strung out, like me. A single year. a date, pinpointed to the very second it was set free for the woods, or for public school. Absolutely, you're on the run, you're won with one.

I'd rather be envy; it's green, as opposed to jealousy which is also green but a different emotion altogether, let's agree. It's an entree better off than and it's a promise for some juicy gossip. Well, it's important to me. And as rarely as your character has grazed such interpreted lines, now it seems the time. Hopscotch; I have to be careful when jumping around you.

and what we're starting--this right here--is how I lost my best friend.

At least, in that perspective, I was as perplexed at such a vestment of unorthodox taxonomy literally pawning off the distribution of unworthy pamphlets to worthy bleeding organs. You think I actually want to read your initials everywhere I turn? You're wrong. Always were. It lured me to you, now I'm just disturbed. As time dictates the day, so does it mandate the onslaught of unwelcome memories. Because at 6:30 sharp, she'd call. Her car horn beeps at seven-oh-five, and I barrel out the door barefoot and clutching a toothbrush. There's coffee in the cup holder for me if I smile. At 7:10 we're in and cross-legged outside our sanctuary; The hallway of epic musical instrumentation and orientation. They're finished braiding my curls by the first bell, and I'm off to "Science Tutoring" with love and a religion teacher. Every early morning torture 'cause the whole class knows I'm in love with her.

There's a lighthearted concept of concern in used condoms. You have homework? Fuck your life, no, fuck you, deal with it, babe, that's life, and this is wizard's chess. I am the blind enclosing the swell box in an organ.

Straight Volatile.

All glitter and gowns, all vendor and sounds. Peace, love, time to grow up, infinitely. Calm yourbandana, it's fashion; it's black, it's passion, it's back, indefinitely. serendipity. serendipitily? with serendipitous? does anyone have a dictionary? Of course not.

Course. or worse, path? Roads are taken, and lost, and dead-ended. Splendid. You can be nonconformity, I'm normalcy, supposedly. Veins, I'm vain.

If i had a dope war, I bet I'd get robbed and shot. As she pours another drink, her cleavage is escaping, sitting at the picnic table, gaping, truth or dear, I swear, this game will end in stop signs. I was right. The water bill is high because the faucet dripped all night. Stop burning bridges to kill yourself, don't pollute, just drive off the edge instead; it's efficient. No, it's bedtime. Curl into my covers and seep into my rainbow sheets, please. I want to feel your dreams. scratch that, I want to fill your seams. I want noteworthy schemes and explicit means for losing teams. and screams, streams of them with needs. or seeds, it seems girls spin trees for me. It bleeds streams of themes so they cream for Joachim. the esteemed regime dictates an extreme or green revolution. So fight pollution in your vegan-alternative lifestyles.

I'll be there. For shipping method and shopping credit, for you. In parks with cops and I4 sparks, I'll sit in the passenger seat and be there for you. Wrecks and sex; that's next; that's us. Plus, I pay for the liquor unwillingly; stilling all desire for inspiring crevices of lost cities.Panic, meet the press.

Assess the lyrics of irate artists on scratched CD's. Dead with thatched memories. or tools of foolish mediocrity. Democracy in a magicians top hat pulled out a rabbit, sad, really the naivetyof a cabaret's 'deceivity'. I've got my own dictionary on Ebay along with potato chips the shape of jesus' balls. tap, tap, tap. and then... just smack. *DING* please, turn the page. Or pass the milk, it's the same.

I'm still too young for a sea of conniving attention. Not to mention the pension I'm sure to receive. Oh lord and salsa; "Kayak" reciprocals. how cool, how chic, how weak? Au Contraire.And then how can a piece of ply wood be slinky and crawl down the front porch stairs? because of love. or Winn Dixie. or Wal-mart. or cocaine.

So our rebellion predicted a rise in the consuming of scotch. We blamed the ride for the clocks in the tides. and it's done on purpose so mahogany boys can lace fingers with girls that have jobs at the circus. Silver rings? Please. We're seventeen, not thirty-twelve, take your engagement to the moon, you're killing the chance this generation had. The leader in the circle is selling bubblegum smiles, and we'll park for awhile and swear at the sergeant major who majorly is a pain in the ass.

It's not my job to maintain the rest of the world's trends. I don't have a crack-selling boyfriend to teach me the facts of life, and I couldn't have been staring when he walked by because I can promise you that's not my type. I don't do deaf, or deal, or wind-chimes. I'll deny I'm simply frilly, and wear sneakers to bed in order to stop my feet from going sore in my nightmares.

Anasazis.

Rhyming poems are liars. While you're reading you have to wonder if they said it because it rhymed. They can't coincidentally mean every line and it happens to rhyme? Inconceivable.

Practice makes crashes; we're perfect at it. We're purple, we're picks, we're sticks, we're murder. We've got March on our minds, let's boycott the rest of our lives, it seems to choose a greedy choice, so it's unwelcome. We kidnapped it. Zip-tied it. It's in the back with the seats pulled down, a gesture so familiar to me. We're just stealers, theivers, teenagers, lovers, haters, bakers, candlestick makers? Well, we were. We were finite, finesse, and death.

The ghost of a stone sculpture holding a protractor in front of the Mormon church. You're Krystal Meth, I'm vexed. I see a guitar pick around your neck; that's sick. He's bassist, and fascist, I hate his guts, at last. At last, you've responded.

I'm cruisin' for a bruisin' and that's exactly what your dishin' out. I give up. The Triumvirate Fracture is slowly approaching, I need to forget. Forget forgetting, forget to remember, forget you. I've got labels for purchases, groups, cliques, and people. It's bizarre, I know, but I'm stranger.

Rogue, awkward, whatever. We're still the same old kids just living for a break. We'll take what we can. You're my best friend, my worst friend, my girlfriend, my boyfriend.

I have delicious delicacies in my own little reality, I'll stay here, thanks, and leave you to that other world, where cool is clearly ostentatious, and teenagers are getting pregnant, and poor people can blame the rich, and the rich just get richer. And your best friend can take twenty-four hours to decide she hates your guts. Where girls can change their hair if they don't like what they were born with, and boys can take pills for the same effect downstairs (you know what I mean...) and this is the place we call home. It's nice, if you forget the price we're paying. Lovely. I'm staying in Mariah-world. Join me, there are baked goods involved.

When you're addictive, you're insatiable. You're a parable, a caroler, cajoled, agile. It really only makes this harder. Stop analyzing it, just enjoy it. There's a beautiful place out there. Granted, it's covered, imposed, impounded(?), surrounded, and accosted by city structures and functions. But it's there, I swear. Won of their wars are fighting within it. If you ignore the streetlights, I'm sure the dim skeletons of souls and decomposed organisms will illuminate themselves for you. I'm proud, you've opened your eyes. You finally saw everything I've been attempting to smash through your brain. And since you're done rejecting it, let's hymn our way to the crops.

Action, it's significant for sex and work-outs at the gym. I'm imagining things I shouldn't. The first house on the right or the top floor in the tallest building for sights of seeing. We're fleeting. We're fleeing? We're leaving, because it's over. And we've left for lost and most of all, we're gone because it's ended with a dismal closing credit.

Let's be rad and dance.

We're a youth involved in books of faces and denoting which space is ours. We're going to jail for possessing. We're youth? No, we're drugged. Call me when our kids are grown, dead and gone, and their children have the chance to not screw everything up.

Youth is a billboard with a black eye and busted lip. I tried. We're not stopping, we're speeding through the trees. We've got heat in the trunk and yellow winds creeping through the creak-ed windows. It's more aerodynamic than we expect.

Bandwagons have comfy seats, she says, but I think I'll catch the next one. Or I'll walk to the destination and save us all the trouble, thanks.

Unchallenged. In every degree, we're living without rules because it's true, dear, that "no one loves you in winter." Thought? If everyone's being unique, it isn't unique anymore. Grab a dictionary. or a razor, they're on sale.

You're living my life in rewind. You have my friends, my school, my spot, my vacation, my words, my thoughts. I'm sick of sharing with you. So we're not "gonna" be friends anymore. I'm giving up March and time for lent, and you're just gorging yourself. It's joust, it's jest, it isn't funny so give it a rest.

Gorgonic. With poems on telephone poles and I'm a hippie or a graffiti artist, either way, it's bold or frank or unruly. The point was a 50, and I'm four points from the feast.

And the bangs are so long, the eyes can't see for crap. lovely. I'll just shut my mouth and tear some paper for pay. A monkey could do this... and probably more accurately. Nimble, finicky, heart of darkness, and a test? I'm working Sunday, let's dance. It's boogey and disco and apparently the newest "rage." jesus, what an age. Our future is looking pretty dim.

What's a hammer doing taped up to our wall? That's gaul or gumption or function? We're nailed, anyways. I've been boned by CVS. congrats.

Mariah to ground control, major Tom got us fucking lost. navigation, ever been to rocket school? Tin can? more like an endless wasteland of misery. Also known as Orlando. Asshole. What did you do with my step? It's missing. You better bring that back right now or I'm exclamation-pointing your vials, got that clear? nicely nicely, and precisely. We're fear.

less, I guess.

March.

Auto-response begins the day you call first.

It's not your fault, it's hers, and mine, and theirs.

You're being blamed, because we're unresponsive to irresponsibility. 

I'd know; I'm on the poster for irrationality.

Don't begrudge this. October is a gossip guru, but he's aware of how you feel. Four years he was the target. And with anniversaries approaching, the 28th is unresponsive. So we're aiming at the eleventh. I'm a good shot, a straight arm, and an accurate marksman, for once, for twice, for thrice, who knows? I don't have to make sense when it comes to you, it's candle-groaning-crying time so leave me alone to pout. 

Disambiguation- when you come to despise a month for holding the highest and the lowest moments of a lifetime. No, wait, that's insanity, with nothing to do uncertainly. Please, skip those days. I know I'm not ready to rewind. I've been holding fast-foreword for about a year now, don't make me give up the remote. 

Progress for mariah's brain is not enough to sway. If you put me through this torture, I'll kill myself. Unthreatened? What do you care, you're a month! I'm ushering in May. because April is just as shitty. The worst time of the year, and what have you given me? Nothing to fight it with! Absolutely nothing. What am I suppose to do?

Krystal. god. I can't be expected to forget when you keep sending back the days that remind me. You hurt. fuck. Go fuck yourself, March, stay away from me. I'm giving up time and March for lent. April, too. It's detox. please, just give me some space to survive. 

See? Just thinking about it ruins the poetry. You can't live with forget in your memory.

The Wizard of God.

I won't leave this city until your eyes are pretty again. Paste your makeup and glue some youth, we're stuck in this mud 'til Tuesday. Sexy boys do not land themselves in Marine Science camp, those ads are crap. 

There's a sound in a sense and a stupid text I'd like to light on fire. I'd watch it burn and in class, it'd eventually be my turn. "Raincheck, please, I seem to have misplaced my book."

We lost. Plus, we were made to suffer. Again, if I'd known it was trendy I would've waited. If it hadn't been March, it would've been November and it would still suck in the end. There's a lot of contractions, contradictions by nature, I see. Maybe I could speak literally? Ignoring apostrophe and just saying it without all this combining of consonance?

These shoes are made for slipping and that's all I've done since Friday.  Particularly counterproductive in it's essence. With such a decline, I find I've had less gratifying ideas.

I surely have?

The feature of the induction is not a paper white robe. There's a doorknob. We've melted it, though, so good luck trying to escape. Two tons of irony delivered, and we're fetching twisted insanity for love. We're in love with love, but not love itself. It's unrequited and hopeless, but nowhere near romantic. That's the awkward part. 

White robes and escape routes? Clearly, They're trying to severe my arm. Bank solid. Dance irrationally? And though regrettably, language is truly a barrier, I can still understand you. You know what I'm saying, too. 

Go balls deep. And then get off on such patriotic devices based on hot chocolate and false support. It's only cancer. It's just a small vulnerable infection within your bloodstream that makes you sustainable to every conceptual illness. I hope not only does it give you hell, but herpes, rabies, scabies, and all other veneral diseases. We never said it'd be easy, sweetie.

But we said we'd be fair. That's why. That's precisely why it throws a sardonic abstract beat poet for a loop, a square, and a triangle. Baby, these days we're all shapes. Instinctual, but I'm positive I skipped the day they handed it out. Along with an incredulous mispronunciation of figurative language, and we've all got C's because Mariah cut points from the Beloved Essay. whoops.

You're faking it, I should know. You poor, poor thing. With that haircut, and a gentlemen of proportional standards, I bet you think you're the happy one. You've heard every sentence I had against you, every tear that carpet absorbed for you, and every curse word my mother scolded me for, all for you, love. And there's nerve to walk away? Keep them. I lit all mine on fire. And I hope you see your junior yearbook picture and think of me when you notice the chain around both our necks. "Forever/Friends?" as it should be. I wouldn't even begin to guess, but I would know. 

Thought. was repressed. Condoned by catholic repercussions. And it isn't exactly religious, more spirituous, which is an ornery word in itself. You can be the distilled water, I'll be the engorged amount of alcohol. We're "gonna" mix 'em together, and they're "gonna" explode to our faces. Will you think of me in March? The eighth, the tenth, and the eleventh. It's my triumvirate. Please hold peace, some of us are approaching the climix of our lives, thanks.

*ding* *pause* ding *ding*

Don't think we've done our time? Hey, I'm cool because I grow upside down tomatoes in my vegan alternative lifestyle. And I wear skinny jeans that are purple with infected bowling shoes, so I must be awesome. Could we be more scene right now? I don't think so. ick.

I was not aware that disambiguation existed and now I'm disappointed. So the uncertainty of a word or situation can be removed? There's no fun in that. Why bother in the first place? Then what is it? And Oxymoron? The causal factors of this discovery are not oblique but still I don't enjoy them. Maybe I liked the confusion, the misinterpretation and blatant rancid equivocalness. Sometimes we need a little anarchy to keep us from rebelling...

We retire to cogitate and smoke a nice bowl. There's nothing wrong with being derisory. unless, of course it's reflective of our "inadequacies." meditate with me, and then again we're doin' time like Danny in Ocean's Eleven. 

and my toes have grown larger than tokyo. I'm glad you find this funny. You won't when it's time to go for burgers and my feet won't fit through the door. What will I wear over those enormous toes? My socks have rendered off and the bowling shoes are long gone, but still they grow on. They're gaining a private nation-state with the square footage they've just reached. I will be Mariah and they will be toes, just so everyone knows. 

Getting into the car will be nigh impossible. The toenails are bigger than your windshield. It's a hazard, but I'm hungry enough to allow it. I need another seatbelt for my enlarged fetiches. 

It's Summertime. We're wearing blazers. and sweltering wool scarves. They're from garage sales with the keeper's of your brother. I guess I get the title, but I am not my brother's keeper. I'm not even my brother's sister. What say you at that?

We have these relations. With each other. All of us. It's based solely on words and the words are based solely on disconnection. we can convey our content through emoticons and it's sad. If we forget to add a "smiley" we are suddenly portraying hostility. Please, save me from my own generation. They believe in Hiroshima but they don't know where it is. They're preaching equality but they can't work for equal opportunity. Our ancestors did it differently. I "are E ess pee E see Tea" that. With your flying griddle pan, I'm going to knock sense and grease into their heads. They're brains shall be boomerangs. and we're gonna pray they fail to return.

At two twenty nine, we'll shoot all the flies who are here to feast on our decomposition. It's their position, we can't blame them for our indisposition. tion. tion. tion. tion. It's rhyming. shouldn't "tion" be spelled "shun" yes, that'll do. "Indiespozishun". You know what I'm saying; it's working flawlessly. 

Could we write novellas just on the way those trips fell down? I think, I suppose. We should write of our dirty toes. And they way the continue to grow. I could be walking, jogging, talking, sobbing, dying, and still they're gonna keep going. They're persistent. I like that.

I have nothing to dedicate to, so I get to be subdefective (not in the dictionary) it's my right by association, excuse me; "assoshiashun." Let's forgo making tails of ourselves, good sir, there are monuments to dispute such transgressions as infringement on illicit behavior misqualifications (mizkwallifikayshuns, chranzgressshuns, of course.) 

That's ferocity with a bitter tangent of cosine. We don't know what we're doing so we're inventing numbers entitled "imaginary" and those little italic i's are the closest thing to creativity you're gonna get in Algebra 2. Fractions relate with pizza, or pie, or money, and there's a bar in between the numbers denoting bourgeoise versus proletariat. How racist is that? Justification is due in Geometry, too. (justifikayshun.) That's why the orange cones blocked the door and I got to skip in the hallway.

There is sleep deprivation in this bedroom in the sky. (depprivashun.)

Something Clever to Say.

 Next time, remind your hairdresser to open her damn eyes. Or maybe you caused it. Maybe you did it with your scissors and now you must feel stupid. From black men to little white girls, if the house is raided we're all headed for jail. I bet the prison cells have more heat than this bedroom in the sky. "The ink will bring her home"--that was a fucking lie. But it's a baby's world and there's no room for full grown apathy. I'm going home, you're crazy.

At one oh eight, the walls will shake and the foundation itself will crumble. And you'll be stumbling, tumbling along and I'll be mumbling I'm wrong. You were absolutely and unmistakably right. I don't need you to have life, my little dose of reality, my coaxing fatality, the love who fucked my sexuality. Let's quit pretending we're facetious. Let's ignore an attempt to discuss. I hate your hair. No, really, I do. It looks horrible on you. 

You're such a conformist, you're conforming to nonconformity in it's enormity. You can't be unique in uniformity, sweetie, it's disorderly. You're too straight for curly, and it's concerning how shallow the deep end has drained. You left me unexplained as I tried to save your name in the face of administration's aims. I still loved you.

Bolivian Roulette everyday is now an overdramatic cliche. And to everyone else's uncanny dismay, we only found canny disarray on the basis of your steeple from the ceiling-dwelling people we created in pen way back then. 

I'm not afraid, I'm afraid. I climbed above the palisade and watched you in the promenade. I sit upon the colonnade while you parade a tragic crusade away. I'd trade. I'd give anything to have the memories fade today. I've come to a conclusion throughout the confusion: it's impossible to forget Krystal Jeannette. Unless you've a mind for wary. I'm lucky.

It's too much work to miss you, to much effort to hate you, to much care involved to care. You know that place between The collector and the collected? I'm there.

We am. We am imported. We are. We are incapable. We were. We were insatiable. We can. We can apologize. No, we can't, we're insane. Ha ha, we always have been. 

And today we've made a friend. Her name is kickboxing kate. She's a ninja-vicious fluffy puppy with brown fur and green shirts that are too tight for appropriate. Kickboxing kate dates Manic Matt who is a bunny-cat. He's got a nasty habit of forgetting he's a rabbit. They've battled a shiny rhinoceros with necrophiliac tendencies based on his lack of childhood dependencies. In their pharmaceutical land, the Quail and the enormous black panther walk hand-in-hand. You'd think they owned the place. But Kickboxing Kate always saves the day. Often joins her is her mousy cousin, Mouse. Mouse has complex with cats which is why she avoids Manic Matt who is not a cat, but indeed a rabbit with a nasty habit of forgetting he's a rabbit, it happens. There is an ostrich, as well, named Alfred Dufrell and he's got a gun secure in his wing, we think. He wears a baseball cap to tap three times if he thinks he sees a crime. And Shiny Rhino will go with the hyena albino to check out the coast which is clear. 

I've worked in the jungle for about a year and have yet to turn into an Animal. So there. 

Like the ones nights lined with ones-liners.

Je ne suis pas un météorologue!

There's tonic and chronic awareness of how to plow this field. We'll yield. Because we're going to make it right and out of sight, we're strung out to shout of the nights we knew we were flighty; fallen have the mighty--with a small amount of honesty. The electric shut off and the soldier was made to wash his face in chlorine. Boron was a goddess because with a tender few of chivalry the walls were soon made opaque. And where there's a "were" a person always follows. That's what you're here for. Everyone's 'gunna' do it and I'm 'gunna' let you, kiddo.

There will be cake. Let them eat cake. Give him cake. My dear, it's repetition. That's all it ever was. I find many instances to be proud of, and many more to never forget. There was a small in a minute and a grown in only fifteen. Today, the drain was clogged. I had to actually touch it. touche, shower. No longer are we friends.

Today was a flaw in my character. I fused my brain. I think I over-thought. Now I can over-think my over-thinking, as well. It doesn't count when he keeps reaching for his comb, and she's got eight states to lie from. It doesn't matter when they both have miles of heart at stake. How does anyone find anyone to sell their entire heart to after they continuously give pieces of it to wayward teenage woes? Girls, or boys, or whatever. 

When we'd found an enemy, the lines of draw were erased. I caught you with your pencil... and then realized you'd stolen mine. There's no crime in finding nothing better than you or me and that awkward lemonade tree. with a sense of ambiguity because no one's sure if it's left or right or southeast, really.

But we know one thing. shame. we're selling it by the bushel and those sick catholics are buying it. When you walk across that stage, you're just a coupon to their purchase, like a sunday paper clipping. I wont need to pay for the paper when I used to get it free. There's a reason our lives are labeled and you can question the man with the handle.

The vivid way you wrote goodbye was euphonious to my eyes. Though it was a cacophony of rigid tension, I recall you failed to mention that what you did was your doing. I can understand that. I always could and honey, I always will. There's no company in frill or lace when all the wrinkles sprang from the face of our lord. or yours. or shit, mine. We invented care. and then it became a monster and permeated through the air. 

By the time it sank in to your skin, you already hated it. Predestination, preordained, pre-menstrual; whatever it was, it sucked. Katnarat or Switzerland predisposed, and only slightly exposed, It was a yellow rose. I bought it. and he mumbled his signature upon the card. I attempted for you a successful Valentine's day. and now you've fucked that up. So when you're walking through Boston, or New Orleans, Wisconsin, wherever the tune will lead you, I know you'll remember. And a small amount of honesty will prompt you the way September feels before March rolls around. It is sound. Whether you're there to hear it. I'll be near it. Capture that tiny box of truth, and savor it like your gold emblem gummy worms. or your purple cross, the way you've curled on the couch I lost to a cousin. There's a curse word in every rhyme, just lurking in the lines. I'm quitting. and I will never believe in anything again. the end. 

I speak to go.

I come in peices. There's a small pamphlet with directions and my senior picture so you know how it should turn out. Voulez-vous? Nurse, quickly!

So, the proverb writing isn't all that we'd prewritten, and the gifts we gave were unwrapped before we even bought them.

I speak to go; Go awry, Go back, go first or go bankrupt, there's no difference now.

I'd like to give. Give you away from my job. Give down, Give East, give a fix, give time.

Give you a status, or a dollar. Give your virginity. Give a holler. Give a care, Give a gift, whatever comes first on the shopping list.

They took you away and away they took you. The ''they'' you're trying to convey is just your attempt at honesty, while the rest are dead. and silent (cause they're dead.) They're dead and there they have taken what's theirs, and you think it's yours, but they know it's not, so it isn't really, I guess.

I guess they've blown a man for some asian glasses crammed on their head in a choice to pretend they're provocative. Their periods are intense and more than what you'd call "shocking" because they lead down your micro-skinnied legs and end up in your panties.

The legs of theirs were ours and yours and the toes just touched the gas pedal. They wonder why we despise BMWs and navy, the color, not the force. You're turning into they, and when you collide, I'll call an ambulance to drive.

Drive you here, drive the nail, drive your body [their body] to the hospital, I'm not sure. They're really all the same to me, or you, or they.

God's going to be welcome there, but not like "hello, please come in." It's more of a "You're welcome to say thank-you, but not to join us for tea"

I'm not surprised you'd opt for tea, it was they who rattled the locker? They who found the liquor and tattled on their stalker? Nay, it 'twas you. You who has become they. But before the we, the us, and the you, there was an I. Cannot there be an I that becomes a they, so you were never you, you were always them. It isn't particularly shocking.

What turns the light on is not what tickles their fancy, it's more of a one-person opera; With phantoms, and phonons, and phonemes, and polygons, and alleles they've sent to attack us. He becomes impaired and inherently is too left to leave.

Diamond mines he brought back that tore off his lack of finds. We cut slack. cut wrists, cut chords, cut paper, and papercut the wounds from their scissors we stole. They're pierced to know their blades aren't there anymore, they're ears aren't blank anymore.

I speak to go. Go home, go big, don't go, stop, go there, go they're, go their, It can't matter where when where becomes here and they can't spare a stare or fear.

A new brand of hatred

I have twice the size of burn holes cigarette's withheld upon the fracture of my limb. There is a purple snake that twinkles in the camera flash; it's wrapped 'round your neck. I found a match and struck it for a beat. A puzzle of that rhythm you used to tape your feet. I've become an empty ballet, just aiming for a footnote in your forte. Jumping to the pavement where you reason found a landing, I'm stuck in the atmosphere, notwithstanding a breeze of poison ease.

If you JUMP, I will JUMP too. but we can't fall together when we're perched on separate buildings. I would DIE for you; I would like to. There's a cross upon an altar in a basement of a tavern and there I found my piece of mind and the courage to survive ten months without you. I'd cure your daddy's cancer and bring back Dana from the dead, if I thought it'd help you realize what matters.

Chile. or Rome. Or maybe freakin' Belize. I swore I saw you on the metra in the windy city. Your smile was traced to Bosnia, and I gave you no idea how remarkably bizarre most of those hidden motives truly were. So what if I thought of you naked...

I can't spare any more words for you, I'm all worn out. I'm tarnished, and torn, and withered, and worn, and I'm sick of playing the witch. I didn't make you happy, but clearly my Christmas gift did.

When the sparkle in your eyes was simply being high

I never sought to catch a car crash, I never knew they'd be so cool. So inviting and surprising and impossible to forget. The wreck on I-4 West is no contest to the mess you made on my block. That Jeep was too old, too cheap, and needed replacement, anyways. The flip was precarious and I'm glad I shared it with you instead of someone who'd drive near straight on the slippery fields of gravel, or maybe it was grovel? 

The window was our breathe, and the fuel was our inspiration. The paper ball that knocked you off the road felt heaver than an iceberg...we were just the Titanic. We'd always be that sinking cruise and the ship that sailed too deep in comfort. The Carpathia was an ambulance, or two teenage girls buying condoms for balloons and flying Volvo's in the snow, we couldn't be less sure. I'd swear on this unbuckled seat belt that we weren't driving too fast, though I can't remember a sign, there was something that told me to strap those stranglers over our shoulders, just in the nick of time. I didn't save your life. In the end, We only had enough lifeboats for half our friendship, and I prayed for the souls left in the cold on the night you totaled your car.

I reached the shore and held the hand that grasped my broken wrist amidst the rubble. We tumbled from the ruins and saw those days swing past. No longer could I trust you to drive after just one drink, and never again could I think that seat belts were a drag. It kept us alive, to hold on tight, and I'm sorry I ever let you go. You said you wouldn't leave me alone but you flew to Connecticut and I haven't seen you since. That memory we tried to trap on the capsized boat instead escaped into my dreams, or nightmares, and has laid foundation since. This wreckage we're disguising as disease is contagious enough for you to feel ashamed, it's only purpose, I'm confident.

 I wasn't a fan of the bandages and less could I care for the stitches in your hair and the blood that we shared in the street. I'll never see your smiling face, now it's marred with broken bones and an ugly scar stretching from your lip to the base of your neck. We're lucky we weren't next, but honey, I'm sorry, I'd rather drive myself insane then give you back the wheel. 

For Jessie with ember suns and tattoo removal

There's a girl I once loved who provides a flyer proclaiming the sun is a liar
she's seen the friar cook bake circle carrots into silver apples
while the double twice cooked rice was on fire.
She's shot at prisoners with frostbitten toes stuck in brass shackles
and afterwards gave me a call. Or a kiss, or maybe even both.

Those rays are fake, she says, and we've more pain stake.
Which, I reply, for which Christmas we could thank.
When cliche transforms an unleashed anthem for graceful girls
with eyes overcast on ember cooling without water
and rambling dancers tattoo ballet shoes to prove the streets are golden.
There was a ring on my finger with total recall of the love you once gave to me.

When crayons can caution like crossguard and my friends in the city cancelled,
you crashed on our piano mantle and called me immediately because the sun was ember then.
and we saw forlorn men with forsworn orange pills on forsaken carpets of gem.
I stayed alive on memory of texts with photographs of lost love and lost bets
the sun was ember then, as well. She's got a story to tell, and I've an ear for hearing
which is how the sun turned ember again that day.

Grace is what they fought for but the time killed more than the war
The ringleader of the damned banned the ballet of the smoker
and it all went to shit cause you ruined it by turning seventeen
you made the sun rise sooner and the stars all lost their gleam.

It was fornication, under consent of the king
when I mailed her a fleur-de-lis ring
you wanted a thriller, but you just got a ride
and Grace heard my mind with preference lacking find.

Bizarre, the urban pessimist, lost connection one year ago.
He broke through a casino where the gnomes chose to show.
I didn't really read it but he said the words were precious.
I drank his tea at four a.m. and invited Bizarre for breakfast.

I learned from Taylor Grace that tomorrow ain't promised to know me;
That's how my tattoos faded.

In this sunshine state, I've found a spot for rain.
I took it and preserved it here inside this page
with boxes of lines and records of crimes
that I thought would unlock her cage.

I learned to watch the game instead of trying to play
the contact was sinful, I tried before the trees spoke
Indirectly but close enough is enough for hope these days.

I used to call my Jessie and sob for a ballad
I envisioned white halls with and beige walls where she apologized
I opened up that window and assisted as she climbed.
Then I nailed it shut with words and worded it with nails.
I burned two holes when I set my phone aflame
that's when that lucid rain found a place to pour
I don't need Jessie Marie to sing to me anymore.

And I wonder how much you hate me, when you yell "What the hell are you thinking!?"
I taped that letter to me mirror, I see it and I read it, how you saw me and try to be that girl again.

They wanted to all be cats, until we came around.
Then it was smashed, your smile frowned, and I found myself alone.
Forgetting those consequences you mentioned is what got me into this mess
I need you to sing less, I'm not ready to love you again, yet.

Your color was blue and so was my heart when your mother gave me her arms.
You wanted it to be green, I compromised for my queen and instead gave a rainbow umbrella.

What would Jimi think of this new Jessie Marie?
I won't be able to love you. I don't want you to sing.