:: 2010 12 October :: 10.35 pm

flannel
You watch Main Street writhing, frothing at its cavity filled, gutter-lined mouth. Plaque builds, the amorphous red plague. Bits of elephant ear smeared paper plates, dog shit, crushed styrofoam cups, confetti, plastic bags, cans of Budweiser, all of these things smiling back at you, caught like spinach in the teeth of your hometown. And the dentist’s office burned down two years ago. And now the dollar store you walked to from your childhood home sells liquor and cigarettes. And they're building a Wal-Mart in a field where horses used to run. And you can’t leave this place anymore without feeling as if you’ve contracted a disease, or that you’re carrying a burden away from it, or that you're being followed, or that you aren't really leaving and even if you are, what you're really leaving is a piece of yourself behind, but whatever it is, the feeling carries the same ominous weight as that of a storm cloud steadily approaching above either a desert wide and endless or an ocean of omnipresence.

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:: 2010 2 August :: 12.55 am

nostalgia.

say it slowly
and... russian-ly.
say it, but enunciate heavily... and awkwardly, like a drunk person would enunciate.

say it like you just took a sip of vodka you just poured into a glass you just got out of the cupboard you just opened after you just removed the bottle from the freezer.

say it like you almost remember what it means and then you consider that it's something similar to "deja vu" and you wonder if that's ironic and then you feel slightly embarrassed because you still aren't sure what irony is even though you looked it up after hearing Alanis Morissette get ridiculed for the third time over her not-so-ironic lyrics, which you think made the song even more ironic, which is ironic yet again because now the name actually fits and those people are still making fun of it. isn't that ironic?

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:: 2010 1 August :: 11.58 pm

hint: they all feed off of each other.

between buildings.

there hangs a collage of clothing, a snapshot of fashion clashing with salary. it is a view depicting the struggle, portraying a hundred choices, a thousand indecisive arguments. a range of emotions displayed through color, fabric, scent, and pattern is strung between buildings.

their slang, a college of moping. a jackpot of ashes dancing sifts merrily. its a few encrypting the rubble. portraits playing what dumb, dead voices say in a hounds head, in the eyes of targets met. arrange other notions, this place you call your attic, dented, shattered and hung between buildings.

they're bands of mirages and loathing. yay! hacksaws love gashes; landing frowns barely fit. save when slipped in, terrible. poor traits gravely cut some thread-choices sane. a thousand synthesized love; our guts let deranged southern oceans displace your gall, your frantic, cemented, tattered sand lungs between buildings.

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:: 2010 27 July :: 1.32 am

exquisite colors embrace symmetry

gluttenuous reach, hold to nothing skeletal.
though dreams beseech, there is nothing here angelical.

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:: 2010 22 July :: 5.36 pm

I sleep in the hole I've dug, because I can't dream in the bed I've made.

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