Blog Fourteen

Starin g into

the river

is a rainslick city street

Blog Thirteen.

do you miss me? i/ve run my course, my body is spent like miles of road lain out behind cars and hiways that can/t find my rearview mirror any longer, travelling back to cities i/ve cursed, that once filled me with love and loathing in equal parts before i forgot the love, and the slush and snow took me further into the lonely night time, but the sun came up and i/d stopped and found warm caves that your body was in, and that, i had eviscerated, serrated edges all along your hips like my hand too. did the ghosts ever come back? i still see them sometimes stealing through my house like theives in the nighttime but i wished they/d stay, i wish they/d come back and stay awhile, i miss them and not this gnawing ugliness that springs up like condos in swamps, where once that primal warmth of decayed vegetation held me in vegetated states underwater for years, like a soft coma without consciousness of doctors and nurses and worse, wellwishers and voyeurs to see my body lain out, spent out like water and finished.

Blog Twelve.

my father shoots at wolves through the screens on the windows of a cabin, in late june when snow still hides in the shadows of the backcountry though its been gone from the valley for months. and my dad hands me the gun and i shoot at them too, as the wind rises up to howl in harmony with the wolves and the gun jams, and i can/t shoot them as they fade sinister into darknesses of the woods. they will be back tomorrow night and i can/t stand watching over my shoulder nomore.

Blog Eleven.

there was ghosts in that house like guitars strings plucked and slid, like metallic wires on fingers could touch your hearts, and pianos lay broken and lonely (so we thought) in desolate rural ontario, northward ho! but instead led secret lives of their own and gave self-professed concerts everynight in attendence by the floorboards the drapes and you. but it still can/t quite show the beauty of slow muddy waters swallowed up by dams in hazy kentucky afternoons, sloshing into the silt like that water and that dirt becoming mud held your naked body more comfortably than sheets and beds of itchy woolen hotel rooms ever could where trains cry in nebraska nighttime and goodwilled christians give us seperate beds for single lovers, and christ lay with us and christ lay with us and no, no he didn/t. no we didn/t. no we didn/t because japanese poets had it wrong: we did not murder god in our sleep but dreamed ecstatic of blood and it flowing through our bodies and rivers that we swam in while state park rangers watched disproving behind windows (so we imagined) and slept uncorformorftable but beautiful in sleeping bags and tossled bodies looking like caterpillers and we did, we fucking did turn into beautiful butterflies in our fucking sleep, but it just wasn/t enough to break the c--cocoon of the lazy days and the hot and hazy days, flea markets that sell shit instead of love and statelines that don/t mean anything despite what once we sang (that statelines mean more than you think) and driving instead accidentally into three seperate states: idaho, mississippi, indiana, repeating wrongs of 16 months previous into dead armadillo arkansas and charles manson balladry. but we didn/t see no dying squatter on the side of a nonexistent interstate after leaving towering factories for reflective saltwater lakes and deadend backroads. no, we came home. we came home to where we said home was and we made our home there, and settled down among our books and stacks of knowledge to let our bodies settle like a cage around our hearts, and the slow callous machinery of our bones slowly sinking in the places where once we stood, and instead we lay us down each night to rest like so many disconsolate dreams. did we murder god in our sleep? no. and the electric ghosts can still waltz through our neighbourhood for i love them and i love you.

Blog Ten.

and the sad fagboy brothers of sisters i/ve known take photos of their secret loves and leave em laying around and the secret loves all look beautiful + romantic like they should and they never know that neither i nor the boy behind the camera lens can see the beauty they/re trying to hide, the kind of beauty that sneaks out through eyes like bedroom windows in summernights to go searching past streetlights and asphalt still warm from the day like lovers bodies, to go searching for love or mystery or a sad and lonely fuck, that never comes, never arrives, never shows, instead to contemplate their lovers radiant eyes and praying yet knowing full well the impossibility, and full knowing yet ignoring the future loves that might yet save them from themselves or early death, tragic by riversides of skipped rocks and wishful kisses that never came, never showed, never arrived, just another polaroid day scarred by unjustified desire in a present too contemporary for now, and too hazy to be real, and instead returning home through the front door and slamming it hard to wake parents unaware of secret lovers or internal struggle.

Blog Nine.

there is broken glass in the church parking lot which reflects the streetlights, glittering against the black asphalt like your teeth in their hollow opaque mouth.

Blog Eight.

i went to a show at the albion hotel, just over the hill and down the steps of the ominous catholic church presiding over downtown like maybe god himself would if he cared enough to. the day before i saw an excavator sitting below the cathedral in the torn up street, now dirt like a western movie, on a heap of earth pulling debris towards itself with mechanical insect arm like a fat baby sitting on it/s jiggling haunches in the sand at the beach. the albion hotel, dark wood and big stones made into walls and al capone partied here when making liquor runs, no half sober drives across town but international smuggling affairs. i at one point during the opening band, the two headliners being buzzing indie hipster darlings current, managed to divorce myself from the context of bar, music, scenester, drunkeness and just stare at these people, all presuamable subject consciousnesses unto themselves and could not then, stripped of context, derive why all these people, so oddly attired were all crowded into a dark room with old wooden floors soaking up spilt beer and stare in a singular direction and standing so close to, yet so completely unaware of, each other, and several men stood above the rest making jerking motions with the bodies and repetitive irrhythmic noise, and i reckon they must wonder what so fascinating was occuring behind them that so many might stare at it. and people i pass at night as i leave the library sad (because lonely music reminds me i/m sleeping alone tonight and elegaic suburban novels about eastern mystics and the abscence of answers), and suburban kids in collared shirts on brickwork sidewalks making text message drug arrangements wax quiet as impotent campus police slide obliquely by in silent cruisers in no nighttime of impotent streetlights, and as the cruiser slips around the corner and out of existence become bold and mutter under their breaths (still fucking afraid, you fucking pieces of shit) "fuck the po.. anyway" "yeah... fu- fuck them", as though buying drugs where still somehow rebellion, or better yet, and get this, get this get this, this is fresh: as if by buying drugs and listening to PE, certainly not understanding the lyrics, but for NOVELTY/s sake, were a revolution. lets get high and smash the fucking state with our suburban disobedience listening to misunderstood hiphop on iphones as did our parents before us listening to misunderstood jazz on fivegrand stereos, then get fat and old and bald and impotent in fat old bald impotent suburbs as did our parents before us and leave such petty rebellion to our children, but then again: i don/t care. i don/t. i don/t. and i don/t know why it bothers me so much, /s/not like i do anything more than them. or even care to. i don/t. juss their hypocrisy /s/all i guess. and all i want is to go home and sleep with my girl and be able to cease caring again. at least until i wake up.