People live in the Midwest because there is a certain kind of beauty in watching things die. In the South, things die and grow all at once, in a kind of continuous cacophony of nature. In the middle states, things are born in the spring, grow in the summer, die in the fall, and all is a graveyard for the winter. Some people enjoy this; it is in their natures. Their genes resonate with the boom boom boom boom of the changing air, the cycle of scenes, the rich metaphor of weather patterns. For others, this chokes them; they need everlasting life. But the europeans, the folk in whose veins an understanding between them and death flows, they enjoy the battle. They feel in their bones that, while they might not live forever, they can live through death-of-the-land for many years, as a way to prove...something. I am not sure yet where I belong.

paper

I am going to try and put this down
I am going to be the scribe to do this shit
I am going to take a keyboard and a blog and pin down my emotions, the fear of the trap, my instinct to burn burn all the old away

I am going to make you understand the sickness I feel when I think of staying where I am for one second longer
I am going to do something drastic and beautiful that will blow the thoughts of the people that know me open for a second before they start to close again
I am about to thrash and kick in my computer chair and dash outside in a desperate attempt to escape, before I slip on some ice and freeze to death
I am going to do this all as soon as I can get myself together, I know it, I just know it

How I Spend My Days

I am waiting to stop waiting
Looking for the strength to proceed at full speed with eyes clenched shut
Trying to find my voice so I can sing the world into adoring silence
Figuring out the proof needed to convince my math teacher and everyone else in the world that I am unique and favored by God in my uniquicity
Struggling to see beauty despite the struggle that's always with me
Happy to be happy even though at night I'm sick with lonely
Taste-testing every girl I can get to agree, so I can find someone to take my virginity and hand in an eternalish vow of unnervingly strong love
Freaking out over stupid shit like a fear of falling from small heights.

Probability and Angles

“Oh hey what are you doing what is up with you tonight my friend”
“Not too much can’t really say I’m up to anything what are you up to?”
“O I am just not doing much of anything with a couple of my friends if you get what I mean”
“What”
“Not doing anything if you catch my drift”
“O okay I see”
“Yeah should be a good time”
“Where are you going”
“Pat’s house”
“Ahhh Pat”
“Haha, yes Pat”
“How is Pat lately I have not talked to him lately”
“Pat’s been good he is graduating early and he’s got a job at that record store and shit”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah he has a girlfriend too she is pretty hot and…”
“and…”
“And pretty good if you know what I mean”
“Oh you bastard”
“Haha”
“Heheh”
“I’m gonna head out, see ya later man”
“Hey, mind if I come with”
[an awkward moment. the momentum of the situation appears to be at a crossroads. 1st young man has an unreadable countenance. the potential of antagony hangs in the air. the café is full of people and the sound of their conversations flows like pebbles being washed down a steep rock slope. the warmth surrounds them, the heat turned up to balance the below-freezing temps outside. 2nd young man has flushed cheeks from the heat, 1st young man seemingly unaffected by the temperature.]
“How about another time buddy, I’ve really gotta go this time”
“Okay that’s cool that’s fine”
“Alright cool see ya man”
“See ya”

Tired [of)

I am about ready to give up
So tired I am leaning over, not quite capable of sitting up straight
And I am yearning for a love and a place to live and a life that's my own
And an eventual peace
A smooth brow at last
Before this too-old heart in this too-young body decides it doesn't want to beat any longer without the kind of reassurance I am waiting for

sex fantasy

it's pathetic and nasty, but
i can dedicate this poem to a couple different people
because i was going to write it to have the message of, "i want to be your lover"
which is the primary reason for art
but still
there are a few of you that make my legs weak
and my tired face pull into a smile
and i'll tell you what i want to happen
i want to move away to another city far away with you
and we can drink tea in a hidden café
walk back home along the docks and the warehouses
up into our attic apartment
all one room, so we're never alone when we're both home

and then we could lie down in bed, kiss, and make love
then talk, or just be quiet
read awhile in the afternoon light
then i could get up, and fix us a snack
some spanish rice or stir fry or such
then we could sit and eat and write
or do what the world says need be done
but way up in that small warm room, we're the happiest of anyone
you & me are the happiest of anyone

"Hello World, our President is white at the moment, but he'll be black later..."

Oh, Obama won, who guessed it.

But that is okay, if he shuts down a bunch of pro-life emergency care shelters or repeals the Hyde Amendment, I will take a rock and throw it through his window. And on the rock will be written, "You prick. You didn't have to do that."

And then this blog will be lacking on updates unless they have computers in federal prisons.

virtue-trap

if I had to choose I guess I'd say that my main problem is a lack of contentment
but I don't want to write about that, and I don't think anyone else wants to read about it
the emotional struggles of a middle class white boy in America

I don't know what else to cover, though, that isn't soaked in the oil of cliché
too many poems have been written on depression, or the love-pangs of adolescence
and not much of worth can be added there

on the other hand, I just wrote a poem about writer's block
which has been done too many times to count
this lack of new material, this is what it is about
the reason poets snap their pens, and authors divorce their muses

Almost there.

I could die right now
My heart could give out
Or my brain collapse

For I have felt the sun
And I have eaten fruit picked from the tree
I have loved and been loved
And most of all I've accepted the fact that I won't ever do 10% of what I want to do
but that's okay

I know lovers will cry,
but I've cried over people too
and seen months without a light at the end of the tunnel
so they should be alright, I've made it through myself

But can I survive so well adjusted, so early?
Am I not a sitting target for smiling death?
someone that won't even fight it?

I don't think I want to die

Feminism and Masculism

This is a short response I wrote for school in response to Gloria Steinem's article, "The Good News Is: These Are Not the Best Years of Your Life".

I thought that Steinem’s essay was very well written and that she has many good points. The article made clear the reasons for college being the worst time for a woman to be truly radical or revolutionary, and why the middle age is where the real feminist activism comes out. It pointed out many of the flaws of our current male-dominated society, and the effects those have on women.

However, reading the article made me think about the role that men have in the sexual power struggles that are a central form of conflict in our society. The standard feminist ideals center on overthrowing the males that control the culture, and making the roles that both sexes play anew, and ending discrimination and differentiation between the two sets of roles. I believe that this total overthrowing by women is not necessary. While, yes, our cultural attitudes need to be fixed, they should not be fixed through force by the ones being victimized. This continues the cycle of victim rising up against victimizer, and continuing the power struggle. There is nothing wrong with one group having more power than the other; the problem comes in when the one group uses that power to force the other group to submit. The problems between the sexes are caused by male ignorance, incorrect ideas about women, and a huge lack of respect for women. The ideal method of fixing our culture’s problems lies not in having women rise up and overthrow the male dictators; instead it is in having the “dictators” realize the role they are playing, and step down from it to choose equality and respect. If men could be made to realize the way they are trained to think, and choose to think otherwise, most of our problems could probably be fixed within a generation or two. I realize this may not be the likeliest possibility, but I feel it is an ideal worth shooting for. In a sense, reading Steinem’s article on feminism and radicalism has made me into what could very well be considered a radical masculinist.

Sometimes I just can't wait

i went and kissed you
just after school
and you smiled and hugged me
said "i've been waiting for you to do that
all afternoon"

i don't know how to tell you how beautiful i think you are
the way your hair shines in the sun
or the way that you smile that just melts my heart
you make life seem realer, and i'm glad you do
because sometimes it's just too washed out and colorless
for me to tell what i'm supposed to do
or endure

can you spend every moment with me
i get cold and so do you
maybe we could be cold together, or even keep each other warm
i'd hold your hand and try to think of things to say to you
while life just moved on quicker than ever
with both of us just walking on the side

Poem started before the breakup and finished after.

I've been looking for somebody just as broken as me
And I mean that in the best way possible
And I found you, so see the above sentence
Take it, turn it over, put on the lamp
Look at it in a new light
We are both ridiculous, which is why we didn't work
But I love you and I lust you and I need you till it hurts

And that is Alright, that is Just Fine
I can still sleep at night

I'm content and fully accepting of my mortality and the possibility of death. I'm also only sixteen.

How does that work?

Should it?

For those of you that don't know, David Foster Wallace, one of the most talented writers and thinkers in the history of everything and a personal hero of mine, killed himself last Friday at the age of 46. I'm not really sure yet how I feel about everything.

The Past Hunts You

if I had the guts to open up my arm
and reverse-engineer the blood in my veins
I would strain out the gold and the god and the love
and separate them each
put one in a little jar here, and stopper the other up in a bottle
put the last one in a little cloth sack, and stash it under my bed
then I'd take a map and erase all the names of the places
and fill them in with the names of all my friends and loved ones I forgot or left behind so long ago
I could get on my bike and know where to find every one of them

Young Person's Poem

I'm gonna crank the volume knob as far as I can make it go
see which blows out first, my eardrums or the speakers
and then forget what they said, about how I have to obey
I'll chase the feeling of deciding my own future

"You will work you will work you will do nothing but work"
but I swear I will make a difference, and work for myself
because I'm young yet and can chase whatever feeling I want
and fill in all the blanks with my own answers

Riding through the night with soon to be friends of mine
we play the music too loud, or none at all
just love and don't kill and smile when they spit in your face
that's the best future, that's our own future

After Coma

my first breath after the coma was like a leap out of the sea
plunging into the atmosphere, first time in forever I decided to pump the air into me
suck it in, blow it out, suck it back in again

my first sight after the coma was the dappled afternoon ceiling
then blurred eyes shifted falling sideways down to you
close my eyes, open them again, close them, open again to you

first scent after the coma was the perfume of a flower someone placed close by my bed
small and pink in a little porcelain vase, perched on a shelf, to the left, above my head
breath it in, smell it all, breath it out, breath the smell in again

the first sound after the coma was you walking over to me
you couldn't say anything, just smiled and touched me
but it was louder than words, louder than music, louder than silence
first feeling after the coma was the love that was there with me

First day of school today. Eeep.

a poem about Hannah

If all there is is to love and be loved
You did better than the rest of us
Because I'm sure Jesus hugged people, or would've
Maybe they didn't have hugs back then, idunno

But you did a really good job
Like, a really great job
And even if you didn't believe, you were better than the rest of us
because you did it right
I mean, not everything, no, you messed up here and there
but not like in the big scheme of things
otherwise I probably wouldn't be crying
I don't think any of us would be

But you did good and you will be missed
For love and hugs and smiles and so much more
And I'm writing this without even thinking if you're watching
And I'm sorry sorry sorry but you know I love you still
and we all will. always will.

heebies

I got the heebie-jeebies, and I know now why that's what they're called
they feel like that.
you shiver, as they crawl up your spine and down your arms and you flap in the non-existent breeze like a stupid stork and uhh
feel the bugs crawling on you and you can't help your thoughts
sometimes it's easier to believe that there's no right or wrong way to act, until someone does something wrong
you just don't want to be the one to do it, and oh god
the heebies and jeebies
get off of me you bugs

Two standing together, one apart

little children standing on parking ramps with sticks in their mouths
are breathing in poison, trying to look cool
look adult. but they dont

they look smaller
childish
little kids playing with dangerous toys to convince themself and the world that they are grown

and they're not
but they will. too fast
far too fast already
and they don't get what I already understand, you have to play in the sand box while you still can
because soon you'll be too big and you won't fit inside