A Statement of Purpose

This is not a collection of great work.

And so, is completely worthless to me.

I will not write

For to create great work, one must only say great things,

And be eloquence.

I will not write

I cannot publish

Any more

Mediocre reads. 

The Summer Boys

Summer was ours. We were seventeen and full of fun and ideas of how the world should have been. I went for a swim. The water burned me with an electric joy. I didn’t think too much about it, just closed my eyes and dove into the blue. The summer boys heard the entry and ran to me. Behold my sin; though the water is cool, I’m floating free and joyfully. Darkness enveloped my vision and I watched the abyss as childhood visions hit me like glass plates to my skull. The scene plays out with its shatter. This is a memory orchestra. I float in liquid magic. I sank quickly so the water would drown the disillusionments of daytime television in me. The boys tried to save me, though I fought the hands when they pulled at my wrists. And I crossed my arms but one of them took my waist and I kicked but was pulled to the surface anyway.
Oxygen hit me like a stone to the chest.
My lungs severed the liquid.
Lungs ached and limbs dead and bitter cold.
Gently, I roll onto my back.
Coughing a bit more.
The light came with a thousand new colors.
Two figures hover over me.
I squint my eyes and look at their faces like wicked angels ought to be looked at.
And sigh.

Only Fear

All the rats of days

They bite, would you believe?
If blindly, there’s fear
Of this stalemate here
And every wonderful time
When everything went wrong
It’s only fear
That makes life
Look awful in here
And please try not to cry
Though I know your pain
The sheets you cling to
Cave in on you
Come on
You don’t need to shout
Or cry your eyes out
To know what’s real

My Imaginary Lighter

I found the lighter when I was thirteen years old

and would keep the red plastic in my hands always. 
It took me a year to learn to use it. 
My imaginary lighter burns fear into my skull. 
If I was afraid of the fire, I never did show it. 
I only kill to know it. 

Teatro

Later on, in the house of my daydream, we can perform this play. When the grass grows warm as well as the conversations we see play in the mouths of children. What do they all speak of? Is it pretend like the old days or have we been living in the real world? No, I don’t think so, no.

Don’t leave my daydream show.
Don’t worry about when my father returns.
Although he may be drunk
my head was in a box
with a static TV screen
and red masterlock

Summer Radio Love

We were driving with our blindfolds, driving 75 because we questioned whether faith would ever keep us alive. And later again in the parking lot; we watched the couples walk and we strolled with child-like thoughts. We made up stories of the girls in their top down cars playing summer music loud with their boys acting large. And I laughed with you, I laughed a lot until the sun went down but night was still summer hot. And we carried out that week playing in the parking lot. Singing favorite classic songs, sipping lemonade and cherry pop. Took a look around to see the world had changed a lot. The radio was nice; I’ve got that summer heart.

My Imaginary

This is my journal and my notes of guilt. These are my confessions, as vague as I want them. My attempts to translate my dreams into language. My wants of a good story told. My cries for attention and tales from my childhood. All of the love in my skin, the joy in my words. My word vomit. Me, burning my brains with an imaginary lighter. The fear in my tounge and paranoia in the walls. The hesitation in my fingertips. My mouthless living. My playing with combinations of sound. My restricted vocabulary. My thoughts, transparently naked. My skills of syntax. My frustration with the world and with myself. My love of games. My attempts to solve the problems of the universe. My dreams of the future.

In the simplest communication tool I can give to you

My Imaginary Audience. 

Rose Vision tbc

He comes around the window to say that I should be happier. New York was a dream but everything looks better with rose goggles.

I’d like to try. 

Treehousing

We fell in love in the apartment where poets fall in and out with the weather. Where the floorboards know wholly the soles of our feet. And the walls love the trace of my fingertips. We found life where the manuscripts were birthed in the underground presses of the building’s basement where we’d sleep. Where the mattress had no proper sheets. Where the radio screamed at the streets and the cats came and went as they pleased. And the summers kept up with the thirst of childhood.

We fell apart at the end of the summer and then you found me again in the spring when my hair was long and you relearned to smile.

In the Distance

Sometimes, when the world collapses, no one notices. But occasionally under a shroud of curiosity and illumination, we see. Suddenly, all of the features and all of the discrepancies are shown and form a field around us, a sort of wave of understanding. It is then that we know and can break the strings on our naked shoulders and walk freely.