Monday, June 20, 2005
I'm still here
I've been listening to way too much Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers. I even stole a line from "Pablo Piccasso." I also believe "your face is pure sex when you smile" might be the best line ever written, sang, etc. Anyway I have some new pieces I am slowly grinding down on. This blog needs more quantity as well as quality so expect more soon. Check back often...
Interplay of Conversation
Unfamiliarity of the anonymous voice locked into a greeting (hello?)
exchange notification for specific natural identification so I asked
and no one called Picasso an asshole (I liked girls).
Comply to contrived patterns of blurred longitude
static electric lines of parallel consciousness (I hate being alone at night)
paths have crossed in non-secular intervals.
Excuses fall like poison droplets in a gothic tragedy,
I try to read those writers but the books all smell bizarre;
pour sand out of pages, too many schools and periods.
A conversation bursting with sensational normality
true meaning of senseless aesthetic apathy of our 20’s
(a decade later maybe it will be the same).
Coaxing our old conformity into lists of fallible excuses
vegan after dinner soy soaked: 9 to 5 bulging from brim
on edge of a gory accident scene.
Enclosed by our verbal apprehension of our precise location
cellular connection jagged (one bar or two?), I remember when
there were days we hungout at bars and train stations.
Chain smoking and walking nervously, stuttering soul-bearing interplay
in the morning hours of evenings, alcohol fueled eyes glow in neon
coming down on grimy coffee and wet eggs.
We both agreed feeling like cold shiny grey concrete statues:
the old white men lining parks around the world
letting the birds shit all over you.
Interplay of Conversation
Unfamiliarity of the anonymous voice locked into a greeting (hello?)
exchange notification for specific natural identification so I asked
and no one called Picasso an asshole (I liked girls).
Comply to contrived patterns of blurred longitude
static electric lines of parallel consciousness (I hate being alone at night)
paths have crossed in non-secular intervals.
Excuses fall like poison droplets in a gothic tragedy,
I try to read those writers but the books all smell bizarre;
pour sand out of pages, too many schools and periods.
A conversation bursting with sensational normality
true meaning of senseless aesthetic apathy of our 20’s
(a decade later maybe it will be the same).
Coaxing our old conformity into lists of fallible excuses
vegan after dinner soy soaked: 9 to 5 bulging from brim
on edge of a gory accident scene.
Enclosed by our verbal apprehension of our precise location
cellular connection jagged (one bar or two?), I remember when
there were days we hungout at bars and train stations.
Chain smoking and walking nervously, stuttering soul-bearing interplay
in the morning hours of evenings, alcohol fueled eyes glow in neon
coming down on grimy coffee and wet eggs.
We both agreed feeling like cold shiny grey concrete statues:
the old white men lining parks around the world
letting the birds shit all over you.
