George-bashing has been a long time coming. The fiery dome and the Romanesque promenade crowning my high school. The state and the church and that dumb story about how Hoya became their nickname. My stomach in knots gaping at plaid neckties, owning the utterly unownable city, and realizing that our appetizer was remarkably garlicky. A nice little place on 44th with its unforgettable mural and an even more profound relationship to the church. It was then that my mind was decided, so I paused my world for two years.
And the stars flew past me and the planets flew past me and in front of me were a collection of colorful electronic pixels and some cheesy Christmas lights. So the spiral continued and the unbelievable ascent continued. Two vertical bars, telling me that I couldn't proceed by my own order, so I grew more indignant and less knowledgeable. Remarkably, I traveled all the way home to punch the ballot.
If lying were a crime I'd be doing a ton of time.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Running, Sadly
A stem some seeds and the chemicals...swirling all around the room. The passion the fuel the fire...oooh in the planted in the planted oh we planted our hopes and oh wow we planted in my eyes your eyes oh the swirling. The rip-roaring the falling the roaring...crawling. The wedge the sand the precision the crawl the wall oooh in the plant in the pool in the hopes we lie we lie you lie you lie youlie you lie you oh the cryin the hopes the oooh we crawl we fall look around...around around around.
All around you in your world. Emphasize me emphasize the feats your feats the untouchable your stories your hands the clench the grip the skin the sweat the rolling and roaring and fire and sweat and skin and liquid in the world in your world you made my world. The jaw the clench I watch you watch me listen I listen you watch I imagine I fantasize you saw what I didn't the sound and the clench the jaw and the skin with sweat all around all around the room. Sifting, separating leaving all in the room, all in the clench and the jaw and the skin with the sweat in the aaaaaahhhhhhhhfternoon.
The steady summer sub and its chlorinated blue and the missed metaphor for refuge your refuge. Ever catch that...show me how you caught it how'd he catch it how'd you protect him? The blue and orange and black and the ridiculous pavejob the chuckle the assurance simply simply remember me please don't worry about me remembering you around the room around the time in the time we share we shared when your eyes pierced through me and reminded me of the fault of my egotism I can not help but grow older and try to steady the ship sense myself stop lying stop lying and be reminded on our day it comes its yours its mine I promise it's ours.
"Come on now. You sound ignorant. I don't want to hear that." He put a fork in it - something I wish I had the courage to do. The master mediator, the straight-shooter with a famously indexed collection of bullets, a transcendently tactful surgeon of the mundane that surrounds us...he was an impossibly powerful man. Time spent around him enchanted your physical and spiritual sides equally. Watching his eyes was a full-body experience, a leveling and forceful communicant of a verbal undertow that shook your core and sanitized your heart.
We are grateful to have you in our lives. We aspire to possess your energy, compassion, intelligence, and sense of self.
Rest in peace, Fidel. We love you.
All around you in your world. Emphasize me emphasize the feats your feats the untouchable your stories your hands the clench the grip the skin the sweat the rolling and roaring and fire and sweat and skin and liquid in the world in your world you made my world. The jaw the clench I watch you watch me listen I listen you watch I imagine I fantasize you saw what I didn't the sound and the clench the jaw and the skin with sweat all around all around the room. Sifting, separating leaving all in the room, all in the clench and the jaw and the skin with the sweat in the aaaaaahhhhhhhhfternoon.
The steady summer sub and its chlorinated blue and the missed metaphor for refuge your refuge. Ever catch that...show me how you caught it how'd he catch it how'd you protect him? The blue and orange and black and the ridiculous pavejob the chuckle the assurance simply simply remember me please don't worry about me remembering you around the room around the time in the time we share we shared when your eyes pierced through me and reminded me of the fault of my egotism I can not help but grow older and try to steady the ship sense myself stop lying stop lying and be reminded on our day it comes its yours its mine I promise it's ours.
"Come on now. You sound ignorant. I don't want to hear that." He put a fork in it - something I wish I had the courage to do. The master mediator, the straight-shooter with a famously indexed collection of bullets, a transcendently tactful surgeon of the mundane that surrounds us...he was an impossibly powerful man. Time spent around him enchanted your physical and spiritual sides equally. Watching his eyes was a full-body experience, a leveling and forceful communicant of a verbal undertow that shook your core and sanitized your heart.
We are grateful to have you in our lives. We aspire to possess your energy, compassion, intelligence, and sense of self.
Rest in peace, Fidel. We love you.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Transgenerational Despondence: Part II
The concert violin never did it for me, my aural palette isn't very refined at those high pitches, you know? Maybe I should sharpen it; maybe I should listen to Top 40 songs with melodramatic violin lines in the background. Or maybe...I should just skip all that and just give up altogether.
From afar the car moves very slowly but down where the radio fills the cabin we're flyin' down a desert highway with nothing but nameless California desert plateau ahead of us and a dusty road and an iPod shuffle with not enough songs but a mess of style, a crash of silver. We're not terribly agile these days. Kinna in the groove, kinna inflexible...a healthy serving of rigor mortis for the "living." I'm reminded of my giant map and its icon language and those 2.5 lines and the bold colors. Sucking melting ice out of a clear plastic cup; the wind drowned out the solo acoustics, which suck.
She and I are headed to a desert lab...this is an epilogue. I've never been a mortician but something tells me that some ginger finger maneuvers will come in handy. Sandy sun palace, you could've been a haven for some Japanese 8-bit developer.
Intent technicians, huddled around a roulette wheel waiting for their next project. Another human, oh awesome, give it to Claire over there. Claire took a stack of chips and took the black playbook binder. Black X's and bold dashed lines all over the place, an icon that signified her laser pointer, greyscale gradients specifying atmospheric conditions. She would hold one of the chips tightly between the thumb and index finger on her weak hand, then she'd flip to a page in the binder. Mind you, Claire didn't track some national ideology index to pick the page in the binder, though she would tour the country in way too methodical for MTV, too blunt for PBS. After picking a design, checking the quota (that she modeled at rest stops), she picked up the laser and dug transistors into the chips with femto-granular precision.
Argue with me on this one let's hear it I want to swallow your argument, pulverize it and puke it up. Electrical outcry, brassy headaches maybe some jammed fingers. Pick you up by those precious legs throw you over let you go, dreamin' throbbin' electrical outcry. Slap you silly slap some sense into you I bet you'll take it huh, it'll run out huh nothing about interest didn't you learn about interest do you have any interests in allowance calculations too? Singin' my song cloaked in your pathetically unmasked scorn. Love it: "lawsuits remain rare because of a cultural aversion to litigation."
Jigadeejig hee haw hee haw no loose no loose. Can't. Immanuel skyline developments, coming soon, negotiated thoroughly in a tangled web of metal and other instruments. Tappin' up and down reading about the Haitian Revolution, rubbing the back of your scalp and the beautiful bird imagery on your light-weight polo. Managing latency from behind a giant medieval wall, climb to the top and between the tall posts looking out at the horizon...recalling the power struggle in Ravenna.
From afar the car moves very slowly but down where the radio fills the cabin we're flyin' down a desert highway with nothing but nameless California desert plateau ahead of us and a dusty road and an iPod shuffle with not enough songs but a mess of style, a crash of silver. We're not terribly agile these days. Kinna in the groove, kinna inflexible...a healthy serving of rigor mortis for the "living." I'm reminded of my giant map and its icon language and those 2.5 lines and the bold colors. Sucking melting ice out of a clear plastic cup; the wind drowned out the solo acoustics, which suck.
She and I are headed to a desert lab...this is an epilogue. I've never been a mortician but something tells me that some ginger finger maneuvers will come in handy. Sandy sun palace, you could've been a haven for some Japanese 8-bit developer.
Intent technicians, huddled around a roulette wheel waiting for their next project. Another human, oh awesome, give it to Claire over there. Claire took a stack of chips and took the black playbook binder. Black X's and bold dashed lines all over the place, an icon that signified her laser pointer, greyscale gradients specifying atmospheric conditions. She would hold one of the chips tightly between the thumb and index finger on her weak hand, then she'd flip to a page in the binder. Mind you, Claire didn't track some national ideology index to pick the page in the binder, though she would tour the country in way too methodical for MTV, too blunt for PBS. After picking a design, checking the quota (that she modeled at rest stops), she picked up the laser and dug transistors into the chips with femto-granular precision.
Argue with me on this one let's hear it I want to swallow your argument, pulverize it and puke it up. Electrical outcry, brassy headaches maybe some jammed fingers. Pick you up by those precious legs throw you over let you go, dreamin' throbbin' electrical outcry. Slap you silly slap some sense into you I bet you'll take it huh, it'll run out huh nothing about interest didn't you learn about interest do you have any interests in allowance calculations too? Singin' my song cloaked in your pathetically unmasked scorn. Love it: "lawsuits remain rare because of a cultural aversion to litigation."
Jigadeejig hee haw hee haw no loose no loose. Can't. Immanuel skyline developments, coming soon, negotiated thoroughly in a tangled web of metal and other instruments. Tappin' up and down reading about the Haitian Revolution, rubbing the back of your scalp and the beautiful bird imagery on your light-weight polo. Managing latency from behind a giant medieval wall, climb to the top and between the tall posts looking out at the horizon...recalling the power struggle in Ravenna.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Mourning Routine
Walkin' you all the way home, feelin' things out...gettin' the feel. A shrine before I kneel we peek at the glimmer of the gold. It must be Our Lady! Siftin' through some aisles I heard your voice, I can't quite make it out but it sounds an awful lot like an argumentative, ridiculous request: "I have been. HERE. threeee times already today, and threeee times already today I have asked your manager to order milk WITH-OUT GROWTH HORMONE - comprendo ingles!?! Do you even work in dairy, where's your manager. This morning, this afternoon, and a few minutes ago." Mmm, yeah. That's you honey. My dreamgirl. Contendin' about things you have no godly right to contend about, like the time you stole from a store and went back to make it look like you hadn't - baby they called you on it.
"Bitch! Wait for the next one bitch. You fucking bitch!" If you call someone that you just shoved in the chest a bitch three time in ten words, what does that make you? "Mommy!" (or Aunt Trish) "Listen honey I'm not your mommy ok? Your mommy is trying to straighten things out with whatever sleaze is most likely to be your daddy." Well now, is that an appropriate thing to tell your little friend there? I don't think it is. Just because you called some other chick a bitch three times in ten words shouldn't dictate how you act for the rest of the day. That's why Trish took a walk when the real mother came home.
So I'm walking and looking up and getting all morbid. Here's the routine: front page catastrophe, refresh refresh, "oh" details, candlelight vigil, Chinatown Facebook trinkets (applets), acronym and colloquialisms, last thought's internalization, on with life, "oh" yeah, "I was there/where," Senate commission, publication.
"Bitch! Wait for the next one bitch. You fucking bitch!" If you call someone that you just shoved in the chest a bitch three time in ten words, what does that make you? "Mommy!" (or Aunt Trish) "Listen honey I'm not your mommy ok? Your mommy is trying to straighten things out with whatever sleaze is most likely to be your daddy." Well now, is that an appropriate thing to tell your little friend there? I don't think it is. Just because you called some other chick a bitch three times in ten words shouldn't dictate how you act for the rest of the day. That's why Trish took a walk when the real mother came home.
So I'm walking and looking up and getting all morbid. Here's the routine: front page catastrophe, refresh refresh, "oh" details, candlelight vigil, Chinatown Facebook trinkets (applets), acronym and colloquialisms, last thought's internalization, on with life, "oh" yeah, "I was there/where," Senate commission, publication.
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