One time my body was hurting me very badly. A friend gave me a pill. It made me feel funny. In spring I was sitting on my front porch with a type writer, using cinder blocks as a desk. I was doing bad things. This is the result.

How can you describe the procession of a life of nights in this swamp.
The night has me,
sleep will wait.
It's so fucking nice out. I can't even write the usual poetry.
I'm going to go take a long walk and look at the stars
I'm going to time travel.
I'll be back soon.
sometimes I find myself laying on the side of the road bleeeding and pick myself up and say "Now why'd you go and do a goddamn thing like that?"

"Which part?"

"All of it! You're a maniac! You are absolutely insane! I never dreamed it would end up like this..."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"It's nice out."

"Yeah."

"We should walk now."

"Yeah."

"You're going to have fucked up dreams again tonight."

"I know. It's getting kind of exciting. I never know what to expect but it's always so much the same. Aliens, oceans, x-girlfriends and dead relatives, flying, tornados. That's about it."

"A man could get used to a world like that."

"Tell me about it. You know, I don't say this much at all, but I love you."

"I love you too. Fuck those band-aids. I'm fine. Let's walk."

"Word."

"Word."

Modest Mouse orbited by the Radiohead

By the time things begin to make sense
it's time to sleep.
It's time to let the world do it's work without me.

I'd like to remain conscious long enough
to say one thing,
just one more thing
before the sun rises,
before the sun ruins
sight for sore eyes.
I told her it's easier,
it's easier to see in the dark.
She said she didn't get it.
I told her to look up.
Look up.

Those are my friends up there,
those, the ones exploding
so much,
so much larger than us all.
I told her
those are my friends up there
and once a second
one explodes with the sort of force
that would be unpoetic to discuss.
listen hard enough,
just listen.
The sound is not the ear is not the source.

The sound is a history
A history of violence,
A history of epic proportions,
A history,
calling out to the little creatures,
the ones with the hearts beating.

Every 60 million degrees
and a critical point is reached.

Every once in a while
the little ones can look up
and see what they're made of.

ghosts burning ash into life.

We are simply
the dreams of stars.

We are.
simply.
the little ones
the ones with beating hearts
born to burn away slowly--

We save the explosions for the titans.

Our Town

The kids around here
they dream of tornados
threading voices through their fingers
idly, pieces of strings,
melodies tucked just so
clutching merlot and huddled against gales

The kids around here
they've got the knuckles to prove
just about anything can be accomplished
the wrong way

very much confusion
very very much
rubbing of cranium
as the complexities of life
seep violently between his fingers
and there is no numbing persuasion
tot eh persistence with which they coarse.
No cloak

no Dagger
just a trainwreck as
screamed through the lips of McJagger.

They said love was an isane chemical
capable of nearly anything
and we have myspace and emo to prove it.
Bout how many
back-snapping acts of bravado
does it take to get to
the center of a
spine dangling
and a man unravelled,
staring at his own strands
of him from all
points of perspective
to disregard previous patterns
of thought
to churn wildly in
the mess of this progression
without shame
without fear
without fear of shame
or shame of fear
and none of the distraught satellites between.

Motioning for discomfort.
pleading silence with
a symphony of machine guns--
but I heard the whisper
of a single word
between the concussions.
When the hand fell limp.
When in a single second
the world fluttered
and came crashing,
"rosebud"
like a molecule left to drift.

but anything



when left in the hands of a magician





can become a bird.

Peeling Potatoes and living in Trenches

a comic by some guy who is not me but I am sure is an asshole.

Remember the Armadillos

Wake up and wasting away in the dull half-light soaking into the room through cracks in closed blinds. Your headphones can protect you from this for a second, but they can't stop the hunger.
Or the need.
Or the confusion.

if you could still look into her eyes and say that you love her...
But what the fuck does that mean?
What the fuck are the implications of a half-destroyed contrivance in the name of an arrangement?
It's eating you alive.
Every thought bent backwards on itself to send you reeling yet again down the cluttered dog paths into your back brain.
Such a sparkling machine... Every hook and facet polished to transmit two reflections born of chrome and blood.

And you're positive that if you looked into her eyes you could still go through with what you've been planning.

waking and you hear a voice whispering your name and suspect they are trying to wake you somewhere in another world.
This is a dream.
This must be a dream.
Nothing is all that tangible, really.
This has got to be a dream.

Because this is destructive. You'd hate to think of yourself as being this person and you know that if you were clear-headed in any sense of the word this would not be happening.
This is messy.
This isn't how you would have written it.
This isn't the way.
This can't be happening, so this is just a dream.