i got tacos with beef and fajita veggies i got a discounted can of beer i got a grey hoodie and blue jeans i got a bicycle with a flat tire and no breaks i got an alright looking body with tattoos that surprise girls when they take off my shirt i got a bedroom i got posters but they’re all stacked on the floor i got the park in the backyard and a basketball but i never play i got one year of college and the other on the road and now i’m here
i had a little time to meditate while cooking barbeque for southern indiana white people today and so much of it was replaying scenes from last night or this morning or days ago in a friends apartment while his attempt at a party wound down. not to overbear or pressurize. i just get to meditating. all that smoke and also the fact that when me and my boss work together its usually in complete silence for hours on end. your brain plays the most recent pictures.
the most recent pictures: forgetting to ask for your number as you opened the passenger side door of my transmissionally fucked trailblazer, driving in unfamiliar environments with the familiar hangover, the mirage of a rush, sipping coffee at my desk watching you sleep and wondering whether you actually were. asleep.
"i was thinking maybe i’d leave the house and see what trouble was out there maybe there is something i can ruin further maybe a sentence i can butcher worse a kiss that can land like a broken ankle. a shot with a sore ass. maybe i’d see what could be crushed now that something has been built. or maybe just now that its cold out and all the good things get brittle on ice. now that i’m alone and freshly thus. with nothing but a hunger for whiskey and perfume. as if they weren’t the same thing."
im sorry that sometimes i think its a bummer to be alive, but it is. just give me a break. i understand thats alot to ask but holy shit i am done with people dealing with me like its a joke that im sad. it is what it is. i understand i am not the most personable human on earth but when it comes down to it i just need to feel in some way accepted by the other humans i choose to include in my life. a lot of you are very important to me and what you say is very important to me so truthfully everything you all say makes a huge difference to me, regardless of our relationship or how i present myself towards you.
i just want love. that honestly about covers it. and yes, i do care about the source thereof. but still, it’s there. and i know it.
i hadn’t thought about you a lot until this morning when the light coming in from preston park was blaring through my shadeless westward windows and painting the inside of my eyelids red and in my reddest bloodthirsty dream you were amongst my first loves smiling and bright eyed as i remember you last winter solstice calling for me from a front door as i left your party to grab the beer i forgot in dave kasnic’s car i didn’t even love you then but i wanted to and when the door closed i knew i would.
in the dream i was drifting to sleep surrounded by those comfortable beautiful post teenage memories of what love must be and you were the furthest away from me but the closest feeling i can remember. you slinked through the aisles of the room planting gentle kisses on the cheeks of my youngest and most innocent fantasies and when you got to me at the end of the room you hovered over my prostrate body like a hesitating hand.
three times you kissed me above the right angle of my jaw. my eyes were closed but each time i could feel the soft image of your perfect body closer. when i opened my eyes you were walking back to your original place. i woke up and my room was the coldest its ever been. the house was empty and i sighed loudly.
last night a house burned down somewhere in the highlands. i could smell it. a cousin to the smell you wash out of your hair the morning after drinking by the fire. all whiskey and hickory. all evergreen and romance. all heat and light.
at longest the first truck passed us. we stopped at the intersection while the lights flashed the closed storefronts into red and white life. quick candid photographs. still-lives in developing fluid.
two more would pass us. from either direction. and we remembered the times when we were younger and we’d chase the trucks to witness some sweet semblance of carnage.
as boys, we were warzones. and this quiet city suburbs couldn’t burn fast enough. at least for the cathartic relief of the view matching its description. its true what they say, some people do just want to see the world burn. its because they’re sick of watching themselves.
is it funny or sad that we will become our fathers? that we won’t tell our children about those blonde girls in our bedrooms when we were in highschool. or the ones after when we had our own beer soaked carpets and broken bedframes. or once they weren’t blonde anymore (by way of black dye or maturing taste…)
is it sick that we’ll fill our recycling bins with empty silver pabst blue ribbon cans? will it be pabst lite by the time we’re forty? with four kids all perfect in so many ways just because we made them? but for now they’ll be good enough for delivery from the garage fridge to our lawn chairs.
our radio stations, what will they play? did our fathers worship the eagles as twenty-somethings the same way we worship anything? are we godless? can we stay just a little bit longer?
when will we sell out too? when will that dream reach into my heart and remove the last semblance of youth? will it be a woman? will it be her children? will it be my pocketbook?
will we wear the same button-ups and sweaters? identification lanyards and clean shaven faces? leather shoes and khakis? handcuffs and muzzles?
does it make us laugh to think of the future? our barroom fantasies and suburban nightmares. our virginal lusts. our american alcohol binges. our post-rock-n-roll disregard. our inevitably recycled flesh.
sunday, you beautiful cloud you swaying wind you four months young toy poodle sleeping on my chest. sunday, you one am pbr-and-a-shot-of anything you electric distance you young bodies contemplating the terrible difference between silence and contact. sunday, you american gangster you afternoon fm jazz you biscuits and gravy you dinged up mini cooper you two mugs of coffee you black bitter heat you “two lumps please” you “bees knees” and “so am i.” sunday, you day-drinking poet. you short walk in the light rain. you infinitely possible future. you sweet southern skin. sunday you afternoon melt into the couch. you fresh smoke. you humid november. you shed layers. you kissed memory.