at the lake, saturday afternoon, last exam studying

birds up the lake
and outlines up my leg
the sun activities too exhausting to participate
too sweaty from watching the laught
set the field on fire with teh ends of lit cigarettes
tanlines to tell stories everyone has missed
photographs to steal moments everyone has missed
for a reason
for a granted request
i am celebrating, is my excuse, for all mistakes and intakes
celebrating what?

And.

and i think to myself
crashing adn synthetically down
thank god for tomorrow,
for new days,
for at least the thought of difference
a few hours of sleep can make.
for the end of good times
and the start of the next
for this notebook and my dad's skipping stones
for being a kid
when i was
and still


and i remember to myself
perspective and the past
days: dank sinks picture burning
a history of violence of the past of the shame and of
the unspeakable truths never to be told
to be textualized
(to be real)
i deny all you and all you have been
this is nothing that cannot be cured
with
sleep.
A new day.

I

All of my friends sitting here in the sun
where does it all go when it all goes down?
All of my pens, coloured,
ratio: one to one
of stale art and lines of scroll
and ink stains on the pages below
Roots from the grass dirt stone, roots in the first inversion while stoned,
and the Roots playing in vain.
I like this day but this day isn't mine
it belongs to the setting sun

II

Fuck all to study, three hours to prepare:
a failure for the rest of the academic year
Baroque screws, indents and Oxford commas don't inspire
I'm sitting away the great start of summer
Black heat in the afternoon feels warmer on my head
than my heart in the after-dew
Pillow-talk, girl-spoke, covers that don't
Incandescence is the exact capture of intensity on a page, on a beach, on a Woolf, on a thursday to tuesday binge of the seedy underbelly of
lows
get up again to take a Kit Kat bar
wake up to drown and kill rockstars under the toilet seat water leak
look up to look down
write odes to writing odes
or stop.

III

I know how to skip rocks, too
and the stickmen fortress and the bug-eye mudslide - I know and
I know how to step over concrete to stone
it's the nature that gets me, it's the
"every step I take is murder"
so I murder
gracefully.

IV

It's the crunch and the sweetness and the disasters of songs
Free hours of beautiful rhythms to make a boy cry,
ten minutes of love to make a girl sigh
(this girl)
I've been doing a lot of thinking: life and why
we're here and doing what now that
we're here and doing who now that
I've been sitting more than still
where we are
it's not that i want to use sleep as an excuse, it's just that
I don't want to be here
(we're here)
anymore.

V

Don't think
don't think
dont think

VI

Dear Melody, Dear Alfonso, Dear Jenny
From Nate, From Patricia, From Lewis
I saved you a love letter from my ex-lover
she wrote it for me in a plane over seeing some red, some dead sea
but i'm as sure as the belly growls of this mass romantic beast
it was meant for you more than me
for Melody and Alfonso and Jenny
(from Nate and Patricia and Lewis)

Missed a connection in the supermarket greens
you crazy bag lady with books and paints
library cards are rental charges in existential pain
selling used tools for the beavertail industry and the nylon stock(ings) tirade
that girls
(this girl)
need to smell more like girls on a modern letter page
perfume over a wax seal
the mud does not come seal-fresh with spring and neither does this
laundry detergent

BAN feminine odors under hygiene masks
SCENT for seven scents a hit of Alzheimer's
WRITE me another already written letter.


VII

soon it will fade and soon there will be time
soon we will age and soon waves will stop the suicide
crime.

VIII

I am so chockful of serious shite to say
impassioned deeds of loving humanity
if it were possible to preface
all ships - relations, friends, and the numbered pages
with
Please:
never take me too seriously
if only to always take me seriously at all I would
but
there are still dots on my ceiling and dots on your leaves
how will i capture it all (the indecent glow and
the freefall low) if not to prelude this nocturne with a laugh.

IX

spent too long staring at the sun
when i was seven and more than that i was fun
more sights of the One, more looks all around, more anticipating and outgrowing,
and four more years and four after that
where am i now and where have i been
staring too long at the same April sun
to feel more cruel to breed these days than at sixteen
mixing takes the awake more catalysts to rain than body parts to break
I wake up tomorrow
and nothing means a goddamn thing.

X

Fart art. Let's talk turd blossoms in my underpants
Let's make mirth or merry or fuck some shit up and dance.
A little lady-like bug will curve the shape of your ass
sleeping and eating
but I will carve the shape of your urine
from the bathroom tile back up to your- YOU KNOW WHAT
my brother: functional alcoholic and always telling me to write it down,
as if script has some shadow of truth
able to overpower reality
as if memory has any ulterior motive
to overcome the past
my brother, Greg,
left home at seventeen (my seventeen)
and sold Gifts & Cards across the condo park
to asian women, stealing gum and sticking eyeliner
for the former and the rest of the day; for the latter and the rest of the life
my brother, Greg,
never existed outside my head.

XI

I am going through the filthiest of motions and I am enjoying them.
am i? do i? can i? will i?
I am going through the filthiest of motions
and I am not looking too closely
and I am enjoying them.

XII

Am I?

XIII

"you still smell like you."
"i still think about you."
"a lot."
But even on park benches, impressed in empty rooms, deserted on dinner spoons, wiped away on bums and brooms,
"i still smell other boys."
"i still think about them."
"a lot."
Everytime I have one, I can't just have one.
(I can't have one and so I will never be one, see my logic, Mr. So and So., see my opening up as your couch potato?)
It is never going to stabalise - his blood pressure is down when i don't care and mine when he does.

XIV

when he leaves, as she inevitably will, never ask him to stay because she just might.
there just might be the off chance possibility that
he will turn
she will stay
and the open door will never close after that demand
that day.

XV

The only thing I know I write on a napkin carried away by the red tray return turning wheel
pressing my lips on a stranger and the sun rises
and the moon ebbs
and i press my lips on a stranger.

english exam review

Here we sit in scruffle shuffle, in hurried laughs,
real witty interpretations of Woolf that Woolf
would have interpreted
otherwise
(for a sanity of her own)
One or two questions move somewhere in and out
wispy, whispering, willow-figured tress of knowledge
each of us our own
always ourselves and nothing greater
How my mental ailments must hide physical symptoms when I read myself -
the sickness that no one else shouts
disguises under coffee laughter and book stores
NO NO NO more more whore
we are werewolf folklores (changing with the months' moment and selling with the human fur trade)
behind sorrow in Wordsworth's memory
before nightingales in Keats' minefield
I masturbate, too
but not as much as you.

And Lethe is the River of Hades where you will forget.

true fucking say
douchebags in the ceiling tiles, i'm on my back every other day
teach toleration to kids who fake it everywhere else
(fake philosophy)
my guitar sits in my room
untouched
waits for the boys to come
impure

you laugh and say and point to the tall skinny man and his short fat friend
you laugh and strum and point to the hot skinny bitch and i laugh instead
well-dressed and well-impressed
can't touch this
i tried when you are so good at being who you are that you do not realise
you are being who you are