Holidays
They go crazy with their seasons--
Almost drunk.
They climb up their houses to hang lights,
They spend and spend and spend,
Bigger, better; always.
The neighbor got his lights up before you?
Goddamn it.
Deeper and deeper into debt we go,
Plastic rules the holidays.
Plastic cards, plastic trees, plastic smiles.
Our spiritual debt mounts up, too.
It shouldnt be a chore,
It shouldnt be a have to.
It shouldnt be like this,
It shouldnt be like this at all.
50 Year Plan
-June comes.
-Graduate.
-The rest of them go off to find themselves and drink in slack American institutions.
-I move to a city somewhere and play the role of something to somebody. This role could be a repetitive job or a meaningful relationship.
-Ill live in that city for a year, ditch the job or the girl and go to another city. Start over.
-Ill do this till I cant anymore or until someone wants to buy my words.
The chapter ends if I cant do it anymore; a new chapter begins if someone buys my words.
-No ties anywhere. No ties to the job, no ties to the people, no ties to the place.
-Somehow, somewhere, ill run into a lot of money.
-I take this money and buy a small, one story house on a beach somewhere.
-I wont have neighbors. I wont have mail. I wont have people.
-Ill have the rising and setting sun peeking in and out of my window and my words.
-Ill go on the rooftop of my house when dusk approaches and smoke grass every day.
The sun will never seem as intense.
-Ill write about it the next day; when I wake up in the afternoon.
-Ill ride an old bike on a dirt road into the small neighbouring town to buy cans of food. The dark-skinned locals will look at me strangely, making up my past in their heads. They will fish early the next morning, shrugging off thoughts of the strange-looking man.
-Ill return to my house one day; dusk approaching.
-Ill be looking at the Monet skies and looking forward to another beautiful moment watching the sunset. Another moment when id feel something lacking, too.
Upon reaching my doorstep, id find you there; you, who I abandoned in those lost cities, who I told I didnt care, who I couldnt see, who I couldnt help.
You, who I always thought of when I was watching those countless setting suns.
Dancing In The Rain.
When so many people write their shit, how does one stand out? What makes me the ape with the first weapon? What makes me the person with the gun?
He awoke this morning from a fuzzy dream. It was warm and dry and amazingly cozy. He felt the need to move from his comfort just to go back into it. Too tired to sleep, too tired to stay awake; too tired to be in the middleground he fell asleep the night before.
His mother screamed for him to arise from his womb-like wonderland just because it was what her mother had done to her.
He felt the window and it was cold. It was always cold.
He would have to dress warmly today.
