they say these are the best years of my life
but i all i can feel are my arms melting off
and the rest of me growing runny
they drip off and form putrid puddles flanking me
puddles of lost oppurtunities,
the ambitions, the great realization, the loss.
theyre maturer puddles now,
they know what they have to do now;
at least they think so.
some asshole drove by while i pondered this,
and splashed me with my own motivation
ick.
this obviously shattered my reverie,
so armless, i walked down the street
Monday, January 9, 2012
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
01930
There might have been blood on the pavement, and crimson was definitely present on their Timberlands. Something gone horribly wrong.
The sky bellowed, and released her emotion. Her long-kept tears. They plopped onto the Jeep's windshield heavily before being flung away by wipers that were stilled when we parked. He lowered the radio to whisper level and opened his window to hear the words of the kid. The newcomer. The Gloucester kid.
The kid leaned into the window and conversed with my driver. I noted the kid's plain face, accompanied by those nondescript eyes. The neatly shaven head. He asked us to follow him, he told us he had to show us something. We considered this briefly and followed him a scant few feet out of the car towards the center of the park. Open space seemed to flow violently all around me; the damp green and scattered playground constructs stood out in stark contrast. Everything seemed very bright.
Three youths lazed somewhere at the opposite end. They wore big sweatshirts with big tan Timberlands. Out of my peripheral vision I saw their heads snap towards us.
Quickly, revelation.
They burst out of the surrounding greenery, moving at a dead sprint towards us. I knew what this was, but hadn't a clue of what it was. The trio at the far end suddenly was not where they just were, but instead much closer. My companion was nowhere to be seen; most of them altered trajectory towards him. Four or five of them stopped their sprint just before me, and I kept my hands at my side. One of them opened his mouth but I'm not sure I heard anything.
The blow was quick. He struck the side of my face, producing an instant flash of light that I was able to squint through immediately after. Allowing me to note the other four of them who rushed forward and latched onto me.
The next few moments were crucial, yet partially lost to my own memory. I latched onto the abdomen of one of them while the others attempted to pull me down. We swung through the open expanse of green in this manner; a faulty ballroom dance. The image of a hand grasping an extended police baton repeatedly flashes before my mind still to this day- it is in fact the brightest memory I recognize at that park. Eventually I could dance no longer and they had brought me down.
They stomped on me. I have no recollection of individual blows but the damage was quite clear after the fact. I took my only option; huddled into a tight ball and waited, and waited. I found the strength to get up on my feet and stagger-run towards the street until a man in his car pulled up and began yelling. I never did look behind me at that point- but I do remember thanking the man, and walking down the street.
The sky bellowed, and released her emotion. Her long-kept tears. They plopped onto the Jeep's windshield heavily before being flung away by wipers that were stilled when we parked. He lowered the radio to whisper level and opened his window to hear the words of the kid. The newcomer. The Gloucester kid.
The kid leaned into the window and conversed with my driver. I noted the kid's plain face, accompanied by those nondescript eyes. The neatly shaven head. He asked us to follow him, he told us he had to show us something. We considered this briefly and followed him a scant few feet out of the car towards the center of the park. Open space seemed to flow violently all around me; the damp green and scattered playground constructs stood out in stark contrast. Everything seemed very bright.
Three youths lazed somewhere at the opposite end. They wore big sweatshirts with big tan Timberlands. Out of my peripheral vision I saw their heads snap towards us.
Quickly, revelation.
They burst out of the surrounding greenery, moving at a dead sprint towards us. I knew what this was, but hadn't a clue of what it was. The trio at the far end suddenly was not where they just were, but instead much closer. My companion was nowhere to be seen; most of them altered trajectory towards him. Four or five of them stopped their sprint just before me, and I kept my hands at my side. One of them opened his mouth but I'm not sure I heard anything.
The blow was quick. He struck the side of my face, producing an instant flash of light that I was able to squint through immediately after. Allowing me to note the other four of them who rushed forward and latched onto me.
The next few moments were crucial, yet partially lost to my own memory. I latched onto the abdomen of one of them while the others attempted to pull me down. We swung through the open expanse of green in this manner; a faulty ballroom dance. The image of a hand grasping an extended police baton repeatedly flashes before my mind still to this day- it is in fact the brightest memory I recognize at that park. Eventually I could dance no longer and they had brought me down.
They stomped on me. I have no recollection of individual blows but the damage was quite clear after the fact. I took my only option; huddled into a tight ball and waited, and waited. I found the strength to get up on my feet and stagger-run towards the street until a man in his car pulled up and began yelling. I never did look behind me at that point- but I do remember thanking the man, and walking down the street.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Collage/Person of Interest
Collage may be on the growing unrest and violence in Syria. The government gave a 72-hour warning for protestors to stop in the city of Homs...if they don't, they may face a masscre:
http://edition.cnn.com/2011/12/12/world/meast/syria-unrest/
I want to do research on Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, the perpetrators of the Columbine massacre.
http://edition.cnn.com/2011/12/12/world/meast/syria-unrest/
I want to do research on Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, the perpetrators of the Columbine massacre.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
yesterday, i almost killed a dove
yesterday, i almost killed a dove. it was a scant few inches from making the transition from avian symbol of tranquility to grotesque sack of bones plastered to my windshield. i made no effort to swerve or brake my vehicle upon the appearence of my winged friend- i kept a steady trajectory and left the bird's life to fate. i was bored and tired, but sober-worn out from sitting in my car at the local 7-11, sharing ciggarrettes with erik as he continuously "invested" in low-price, low reward scratch tickets.
there's something thoroughly tiring about a boring span of hours spent in my chrysler. after dropping erik off, i turned onto a darkening forest street, heading towards route 1. this oft-used street was not without its demons-ma came home with a busted leg and a crumpled minivan once, and pointed out the tree on forest street that caused all the trouble. that's not to say i don't have fond memories on that street- memories of loud music setting the rhythmn for even louder conversations between the band, or back when my driving plastic was still relatively fresh and i would push my speed far beyond the limit, my friends and I searching for-and recieving-the typical teenage thrill.
the dove, at first, was simply a flutter of the purest white in my peripheral vision, tumbling awkwardly out of the flanking forestry into the airspace above the left lane. it gained speed, still trying to balance its wings, and crossed my lane somewhere above my headlights milliseconds before i sped by, doing a modest 30-in-a-35. only when I sped past the animal was I forced to acknowledge its presence- the way that pure white contrasted so greatly with the wet, glistening darkness of the forest. the dove seemed to glow, even, illuminating a small portion of the surrounding darkness with its radiance, and at that very moment i guess my life changed a little more for the better. i became more like the dove and less like the dark. and i was saved.
there's something thoroughly tiring about a boring span of hours spent in my chrysler. after dropping erik off, i turned onto a darkening forest street, heading towards route 1. this oft-used street was not without its demons-ma came home with a busted leg and a crumpled minivan once, and pointed out the tree on forest street that caused all the trouble. that's not to say i don't have fond memories on that street- memories of loud music setting the rhythmn for even louder conversations between the band, or back when my driving plastic was still relatively fresh and i would push my speed far beyond the limit, my friends and I searching for-and recieving-the typical teenage thrill.
the dove, at first, was simply a flutter of the purest white in my peripheral vision, tumbling awkwardly out of the flanking forestry into the airspace above the left lane. it gained speed, still trying to balance its wings, and crossed my lane somewhere above my headlights milliseconds before i sped by, doing a modest 30-in-a-35. only when I sped past the animal was I forced to acknowledge its presence- the way that pure white contrasted so greatly with the wet, glistening darkness of the forest. the dove seemed to glow, even, illuminating a small portion of the surrounding darkness with its radiance, and at that very moment i guess my life changed a little more for the better. i became more like the dove and less like the dark. and i was saved.
Monday, November 21, 2011
how not to be a pizza delivery guy: an essay
"that'll be twenty-three thrity-sex, ma'm," i chirp to the saggy bitch standing in her doorway before me. i offer the stack of pizza-and-boxed-salad to her and she accepts, placing it out of sight. when she brandishes a fifty from her pocket, my heart drops.
"i want 23 dollars back please, the rest is for you," grumbles she, knowing perfectly well the only way she could break my balls any further is by opening her large 'roni and complaining about the individual size of each of the pieces of her sliced meat, or maybe studying her caesar salad and lamenting dramatically the ratio of rye croutons to white. come on, a fifty?!
i know, as a fact, that there is no way i have more than five or six crumpled ones in my wallet, hastily borrowed from the register back at hq before i left. to make the customer's paying experience as fluid and painless as possible. yeah, right.
nevertheless, i put on a show for my new friend by opening my wallet and flipping through the small reserve of ones, as if perhaps the money mated in secrecy and produced a darling baby twenty, coming in at 10.3 pounds. relatives would comment on the baby's chunkiness, and note the possession of its father's nose. soon enough it got mixed up with the wrong crowd and landed itself in the slammer. figures.
i break the news to her in a hushed and mournful tone, like i just delivered a pizza to a funeral. hey, not a bad idea.
at first all i'm met with is this ominous blank stare, and her eyes were honestly unreadable over the fleshy puffiness under her eyes. but i'm not that dumb, and i know what will follow will not be favorable towards me. at all.
she starts. she yammers on about a fifty is all she had, she's having a horrible day, she's been getting pizzas from supino's for x years and this has never happened to her, etc. i want to tell her, hey lady, i'm 17, i have a crappy car, i pay for gas in increments of five dollars, and probably bum more ciggarrettes than i buy. how much damn money do you expect in my wallet?! but, i don't.
instead, i take the lashing with dignity. head down, i imagine opening her pizza box and slamming the cheesy, meaty delicacy into her face. she'd be picking pepperoni out of her hair for weeks.
i zone back in, and i can hear her complaints start to die down. i expend my full repetoire of apologies and offer to return to supino's and head all the way back to her small mansion in middleton with her change. she declines. so, i left with my 27 dollar tip.
"i want 23 dollars back please, the rest is for you," grumbles she, knowing perfectly well the only way she could break my balls any further is by opening her large 'roni and complaining about the individual size of each of the pieces of her sliced meat, or maybe studying her caesar salad and lamenting dramatically the ratio of rye croutons to white. come on, a fifty?!
i know, as a fact, that there is no way i have more than five or six crumpled ones in my wallet, hastily borrowed from the register back at hq before i left. to make the customer's paying experience as fluid and painless as possible. yeah, right.
nevertheless, i put on a show for my new friend by opening my wallet and flipping through the small reserve of ones, as if perhaps the money mated in secrecy and produced a darling baby twenty, coming in at 10.3 pounds. relatives would comment on the baby's chunkiness, and note the possession of its father's nose. soon enough it got mixed up with the wrong crowd and landed itself in the slammer. figures.
i break the news to her in a hushed and mournful tone, like i just delivered a pizza to a funeral. hey, not a bad idea.
at first all i'm met with is this ominous blank stare, and her eyes were honestly unreadable over the fleshy puffiness under her eyes. but i'm not that dumb, and i know what will follow will not be favorable towards me. at all.
she starts. she yammers on about a fifty is all she had, she's having a horrible day, she's been getting pizzas from supino's for x years and this has never happened to her, etc. i want to tell her, hey lady, i'm 17, i have a crappy car, i pay for gas in increments of five dollars, and probably bum more ciggarrettes than i buy. how much damn money do you expect in my wallet?! but, i don't.
instead, i take the lashing with dignity. head down, i imagine opening her pizza box and slamming the cheesy, meaty delicacy into her face. she'd be picking pepperoni out of her hair for weeks.
i zone back in, and i can hear her complaints start to die down. i expend my full repetoire of apologies and offer to return to supino's and head all the way back to her small mansion in middleton with her change. she declines. so, i left with my 27 dollar tip.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
the conundrum of memory
the words shrivel and fall away like a
season's batch of bug-ridden fruit;
and a mistake like that can prove fatal.
sentences burn in the purest fires
and half scream, half laugh thier
final vocalizations to ears that
can hear but don't listen.
memories, laughter, mistakes,
all carefully grown and nurtured,
with the fledgling belief that perhaps these
ideas will take tangible root, that they may matter even slightly,
to anyone, someday.
now, as i can do nothing but expend my last,
i still hold that belief dear to me;
it is my sacred armor, my soft-skinned goddess,
my everything.
season's batch of bug-ridden fruit;
and a mistake like that can prove fatal.
sentences burn in the purest fires
and half scream, half laugh thier
final vocalizations to ears that
can hear but don't listen.
memories, laughter, mistakes,
all carefully grown and nurtured,
with the fledgling belief that perhaps these
ideas will take tangible root, that they may matter even slightly,
to anyone, someday.
now, as i can do nothing but expend my last,
i still hold that belief dear to me;
it is my sacred armor, my soft-skinned goddess,
my everything.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
the sun is looking quite lovely today
the sun is looking quite lovely today
peaking a curious eye over the crest of our town
i hop down and out of my perch
and regard today's paper with a bucket of salt
it speaks of foreign battles and new weapons
and an even fresher sense of hope
but nope, that don't affect me
so i hop in my car, and i'm off
now i'm sitting on my back porch
and note with tranquility the way
autumn sends a beautiful wave of
systematic immolation through my yard
soon the trees would be bare, and
that's just more work for Papa and I
then, a bright flash of light;
like the lovely sun,
and my flesh ignites and
falls cleanly off the bone
what's left of me collapses into a
small pile, flesh singing, as the bone itself is
burned pure
my dwelling behind me is blown away
by the wind, falling like simple jenga blocks,
and the trees immediately catch fire and fall too;
the air itself is burning with alacrity, everything is red;
but at least i won't have to rake leaves ever again
peaking a curious eye over the crest of our town
i hop down and out of my perch
and regard today's paper with a bucket of salt
it speaks of foreign battles and new weapons
and an even fresher sense of hope
but nope, that don't affect me
so i hop in my car, and i'm off
now i'm sitting on my back porch
and note with tranquility the way
autumn sends a beautiful wave of
systematic immolation through my yard
soon the trees would be bare, and
that's just more work for Papa and I
then, a bright flash of light;
like the lovely sun,
and my flesh ignites and
falls cleanly off the bone
what's left of me collapses into a
small pile, flesh singing, as the bone itself is
burned pure
my dwelling behind me is blown away
by the wind, falling like simple jenga blocks,
and the trees immediately catch fire and fall too;
the air itself is burning with alacrity, everything is red;
but at least i won't have to rake leaves ever again
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