aches and pains

i've been taking tylenol like water. it is because my head hurts. also, my heart hurts and my bones hurt and my soul aches. it aches because it wants something i'm unsure how to supply. but you can't cure an aching soul with two tylenol, so instead i feed it cheap liquor and hope for the best.

scream unconsciousness

we approach each other down the hallway, glossy, distanced & separated & idly i wonder how many bottles of conditioner he uses in one sitting/ standing/ i avert my eyes but keep watching & so does he & we look without looking & he mumbles & i smile because that's what madmen do & i find that comforting like fresh sheets on a summer night when the moon casts blue through your blinds & you feel like you're standing under a misty streetlamp with "Midnight" playing on the wind & dew forming on your hair & down the rabbit hole you go/ as we near we turn our heads back like two magnets pushed together by Left & Right & i wink & he asks what's wrong & i say there's something in my eye & we continue on our way

my treehouse

i've built a treehouse at the top of the tallest tree, it's where i go to listen to my records of Ginsberg, Kerouac & Eliot, or read the works of Dylan, Lennon, and Cohen. sometimes i write you letters but i never intend to send them because i know you can't read. when night falls i lean out of my window and run my hand against the craters of the moon, if i'm lucky i'll find some stardust; i've been collecting it in a jar for you. this is where i hide on those days that you can't find me. please don't be mad, it's just that sometimes you exhaust me, and for that, i've built a treehouse in the sky.

leftover casserole

i am winded every-time somebody says your name
even if it isn't in relation to you
the letters hover around my head like animated stars.
people ask me if i'm alright
and i say yes, because i am
it only really hurts when people say my name,
because then i remember how it sounded
on your lips.

were all these tired faces in the dawn of Jazz America

"i woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when i didn't know who i was — i was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and i looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who i was for about fifteen strange seconds."



i would like to meet somebody who will join me on a road-trip to which On The Road is the map.