Friday, October 29, 2010


Can I have a crush on a girl? Or can I just be mega-intrigued by who she is?

(Well, yeah, obviously I can. Here's some public documentation that I think a girl is rad.)

Girl, you are rad.

a cold front.

We climbed up the stairs and as it grew colder, he reached across nonchalantly to lightly press a chilled palm with curling fingers onto your thigh. The air crisp and clear, shivering in sweatshirts and taking single drags off borrowed cigarettes.

A polished thumb rubbed along my lower lip. Lost in thought, the mental scolding.

Rolled up sleeves and thin arms with a bottle of beer in hand, loosely rolled back and forth upon my knee. At points, like last night, the siren of the city beckons me to enter its grip. Every breath, like a drug, fills me with an anxious elation. Laughing in dim rooms and under radiant moonlight until the shrieks turn to hushed histories and the questions those beget. Pushing the hair back from our faces, seeing a lot in our eyes and I am thinking of you. I wonder if the words out of my mouth were true, or if I just said them foolishly and with a dramatic flourish. No fucking around.

I realize sometimes I really like who I am.

You are golden. I am pining.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

the day of another dream.

The idea of being stoned with you in the park is enthralling.

The word "brother" to be tattooed onto my skin. It's like when our fingers intertwine each other upon the couch and we hold fast. So many points in which I wrestled too closely to someone in the past. Once on his bed, innocence fleeting, exhausting and abruptly awkward. Once from the floor to the bed, clothes shoved up or down and off and onto the floor, fierce and breathless. And once we could feel each other's quickened heartbeats, my face in your chest and your thigh between my legs, instant and unstoppable.

Smoky eyes with curling lashes. The light from the next room shifts into darkness and skin warm to the touch. I can feel the music in me as the beats push forward. Something familiar for now, a song with memories of concrete, the rushing breeze and overwhelming surroundings.

A picture in my mind of you so rarely without intimacy attached. The periphery of you in close embrace, the look in your eyes, the long kiss in. Three brief moments of time separated by months and years, but somehow trailing from the root of something planted long ago. The trailing ribbon of a drifting balloon.

We grow older everyday.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

to be frank.

I want my days off back. The whininess pushes hard to slip out, so I'll try to sum it up nicely and cleanly by merely saying that I do enjoy the weekend and do not enjoy being productive on the weekend. So, despite the opportunity to continue bling blinging about town, my gut informs me that the decision to go full-time for the next two months was slightly irresponsible given my innate tendencies. I say god damn, future home of education, I promise you'll be swayed by winning personality alone! The two sides stubbornly duke it out, vying for the desired outcome. Perhaps I should heed the words of a few voices in my head and get inspired in other ways, but meh...

Sunday, October 17, 2010

the start.

I thought about you about the empty parking lot.

Being close closed the gap. Holding you up holding me as the yellow static of a street light draws long shadows behind us. Our cheeks did not meet, but were my eyes closed? I think my mind ceased of all but you so the memory is sharp with softened edges.

I couldn't read what was in your eyes. An expectation or anticipation? A sorrow with earnest desire? A question hanging over our heads? The chorus repeated ad infinitum.

The night fill with the inky blackness, a deep darkness bleeding slowly and fully, and the cars rush by. Songs off Nebraska, pulling my jacket closer, wind slipping through thin, loosely knit wool, hair pulled back, leaning ever so slightly forward as I stride ahead. At some points, I cannot lose you like you are the green light at the end of the dock and at others, you bob like a buoy in the fogged distance.

We rode at night, the tails of our jackets whipping about and all is silence beyond the wind in our ears. The Woods too loud, too crowded with faces unfamiliar, as usual. I attempt to go within myself to a place occupied by my own moves (ha!) when channeling everyone that I miss into the frame. It will never be like Whisky Bar nights again. And that's when I feel older. Let's be honest though and admit that I can still bring it on the floor. Forever and always. Flashing lights, hitting potholes in the asphalt, knuckles cold from the air and we are closer to home.

Brothers and "Slow Show", back and forth bc I'm picking up what you're putting down.

I took some steps to say I did it. I am making it happen. I promise now.

I wish I was gripping a bottle of champagne by the neck, swigging it on the roof.