Untitled
November 29, 2006

"It's pretty, isn't it?"

"Yeah." He answered her with vacant eyes that watched the fireplace before them.

"Couldn't you just watch it for hours?"

"I know what you mean."

"I could watch the whole city burn." She smiled (proudly) at her seemingly profound statement. He must like that sort of thing.

He turned his head and gave her a questioning look. His tone of voice suggested that he thought she was either insane or from another planet, "W-Why?"

She shrugged, "It would be pretty."

He snorted and turned his attention back to the fire, "No, it wouldn't."

"C'mon." She laughed nervously at his response, "I wasn't serious. I mean, I don't want anyone to get hurt or something. It would just be... pretty."

He sighed and shook his head, "Don't get me wrong, I would be fine with this shit hole and its shit residents dissapearing overnight. What I mean is that it wouldn't be as facinating to watch. A fire is only as good as the detail you witness. To have an entire city burn would be a waste because it's more than you can possibly watch. Me? I'd be happy watching a match burn. An entire city is unecessary if you're looking for a simple form of amusement."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so." Her words were hollow and she stared at the fire, waiting for him to answer. He didn't. Not so much because he was ignoring her, but because he was once again captivated by the dancing light. She was captivated by her own insecurity and doubt. Not only did she have to deal with the question of whether or not he liked her, after an awkward coffee date and what was practically an invasion of his home, but now she began to wonder whether or not she liked him. He was fucking weird, after all. She never really liked him very much, despite his looks. She just thought that a boy like him by her side would make her the talk of the school once again. She was an attention whore, I'm not going to lie. It had something to do with abandonment issues, a messed up and deprived childhood, blah blah. As for the boy... well, he really was fucking weird.

Finally, amidst the flames before her and the chaotic fire in her mind, she figured out what felt like the right thing to say. As right as it seemed, she said it with hesitance, "I'll go grab some more wood."

"Don't bother." He told her. There was fire in his eyes.

Untitled
November 23, 2006

sometimes I forget
that when it rains
you get wet

I am washed away
there goes the notion
of anything less
than beautiful
so so perfect
than embracing the element
letting it take you away
from wet shoes and cold
hands
a long bus ride home

and sometimes I wouldn't know
on that long bus ride home that
in a flurry of people
we're all truley alone

so far away
from any notion
that we are mere
strangers
less than beautiful
less than perfect:

not drunk, but happy
not staring, but speaking
not distant, but dancing
not soaking, but splashing

A Photographic Thought
November 16, 2006

A memory escaped my mind until I watched the end of Grey's Anatomy tonight. It was sparked by Miranda Bailey singing a song to her baby over the phone, and then by Meredith visiting her mother. I mean to write about it, but it slipped away before I could get the chance.

I had gotten off the plane after going home for my birthday in September. It was during a weekday, and it was early in the morning, so the Victoria Airport was a very quiet one. 'Hollow' is the term which most accurately describes the atmosphere. There were people here and there, but it was like walking in a wax museum.

I went into the gift shop to search for a book since, on hearing rumors about the traffic, I thought it was going to be a while before I got picked up. I think it was about then that I heard it: the most angelic, yet sorrowful voice echoing off the immaculate walls. I don't know what exactly the song was about, but it was breathtaking. Listening to this had the same effect as looking at an aged photograph of your predescesors and recognizing your own face staring back.

At first I thought it was a radio, then I realized that they don't play music in the airport. Next I presumed that it was a young person, sitting on the floor with a hat in front of him. I had to find the source. And I did after a bit of searching. What I saw, I didn't really believe at first.

There was this solitary old man seated by the window. He was a sturdy, average looking senior. I don't think I saw his face, but he was rocking back and forth a little, singing the sad melody into nothing. He wasn't asking for money, nor did he have any visible audience. He simply sang for what seemed to be the sake of singing.

I went back in and bought my book. On the way out of the gift shop I saw the elderly man accompanied by a middle aged man who I assumed to be his son. They were on their way into the gate, and the younger man spoke to his presumed father in a lightly condescending but loving way. This indicated the senior was indeed mentally unsettled. I already thought so. Why else would anybody jeopardize their dignity for the sake of something other than themselves, after all?

I didn't linger or stare. I passed them, I moved on. I sat in the now hollow airport, opened my book, and returned to fiction.

Walls
October 26, 2006

a slinking feeling
felt the touch of
summer on its brow
I wonder if I'll ever
be diluted with the now
there is a grey thing
in my mind
a spot
a spot
a spot
it serves a constant
memo that, "I am
simply not"

Halloweenish

three yards of thread
two woven beds
eight ugly legs
and a deadly favor

it bats an eye
it bats a wing
and now will
will sing
a song
for you

a pretty thing
the lagging wing
and now a kiss
a kiss
for you

some razor teeth
some poisoning
some dark
some light
some adieu
for you

Imagination Vocation, Inflation, and Deflation

I see the surface
it makes me nervous
the break of a fall
the making of you

slate in the water and
find that the daughter of stale
books upon your shelf (oh
the telling of things)
is a beauty

oh yeah, she's a beauty

well you made her you'll save her you'll break her
away for something more fresh
something of flesh

but the flesh is not pretty
and flesh is so dirty
cuz humans are dirty when
you wear your perspective
and look in a mirror

Another Dumb Poem About The Weather
September 25, 2006

trees dead
walk streets in lines
bow to us
catyclismic to the nines
in crowns of red leaves
and brittle branches
hair calling noble
to the sky
droplets grace our arrogant lips
the wake of summer
crumbling at our feet as we all
laugh along
to a chill prelude

A Song (Unfinished)
September 13, 2006

'Heaven's so far away,'
that's what she said
'can't reach the earth
when there's hell in our heads'

She had grown listless
and needed his heart
which he gave her willingly
But only a part
While her's ceased it's beating
a long time ago
When he stole it and hid it
where no one would know

'Heaven is somewhere'
her reasoning said
there must be a heaven
if there's Hell in their heads

She searched high and low
when his gaze was averted
but he caught her one day
and handed it over
a heart in a jar
without holes for some air
assfyxiated pale, but she didn't care

'Heaven was in you, love'
that's what he said
'but the battle is over
and Heaven is dead'

Untitled (incomplete)
August 13, 2006

Dead Man
Walkin'
Where the
People
Talkin'
And the crows are
stalking him
as he
hobbles in