Poetry is not feelings. Poems are poems because they adhere to some type of structure. My critical writing professor, who refused to give me an A up to the very end, brought it to my attention that no amount of feeling, no matter how poignant, will amount to a decent poem if there is no structure to glue it together. I’m glad I learned this because it confirmed my suspicion that I am horrible at poetry and should just stick to prose.

 http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/what-i-really-learned-in-college/

our sleep

these sunrise dreams of our bodies
flying as yellow birds over water

her

miss my yellow bird
and perfect words

batting your lashes
I am borrowing your verbs

cynical potion

you're not allowed to jumble on what to do
if your brain will always grow shitty poems
for the rest your life and no one will know
about how you felt a little better

you felt a little better after writing that
didn't you
that's about all the good it'll do
so enjoy it
enjoy the brief sensation
and then go back to how you felt before

you drank cynical potion last night
while you were blacked out
i tried to stop you

don't ever tell me you're not good enough
or that it's not fair

because it is fair
and that's why your sad

because it's fair
you don't even understand what you"re saying
stop it

put that down now
and never think about me ever again

sample page

a red cardinal sat in the blue evergreen
the rain came down wetting almost everything

my throat is sore

when you grow old you could say
you were on tv
coughing up nothing of value

and when you win you can hug
the models and wave
Jane is a girls name

and everything of value is worth
nothing at all
and all art is garbage
but garbage is better than you

and muslims will explode
and christians will destroy our kids
and oil will be spilled
and blood will be spilled
and japs will kill more whales

linguistics

loinguistics

and life
end life

withdrawl

dosen't it feel good to delete

if a uterus can be a coffin
then a coffin can be a uterus

if something can be nothing
then nothing can be something

if i can die in life
then i can live in death

if i can die in this life
then i can live in this death

dying in life vs. living in death

myself delay
forgot my laptop charger
and never used the word slash
before I don't know whether
scanning through textbooks and feeling dumb
turning 23 every month in the old days
with no family and your music
standing out in the rain

They look so young and here I am
why does the space bar mess up
the rain is a fan
yup

unfocused

walking home

wonderboy1027

for Aunt Ruthy

I took the pictures
of the house with 
the chair-on-top

without 
the chair-on-top
and she wrote a letter
to strange new jersey
and we got published

Now these big pockets

of her jacket contain my things

but they were meant for grenades

handed down to me

that covered her Rosie the Riveter tattoo

that was written about in magazines
she could smell a lie 

disarm a bomb 

And it was bullshit

whether the sun would have 
burned her skin

or whether her skin  
burned the sun
it was bullshit 
she died so young

and strong
-The Truth from Ruth
and her cousin "wonderboy1027"

5 August 2009

You know if you show me everything

You’ll be the first and the last

Those summer boys don’t mean anything

We can forget about our past

The sand on your floor of your bedroom

Tells a story you know well

Of a boy who painted houses

And a girl who one day fell

Into love one day last summer

girard

When

I want you to stop
but you won't
and the shower just won't turn on

It's a broken
washing machine
and a symbol

9 November 2010

X

There is a lot more to listen to then there is to listen to

but Everything is bored slouched over an antique rocking horse

You are The Rocking Horse Winner by D.H. Lawrence

or the sound of the beach reproduced by software plug-ins and sequencers

for Dan

do you believe in the big guy upstairs? he asked me.
(some time later I recommended a kayak)
a kayak is too small a boat for me
last day he worked at Joeys

on the west creek

on the west creek
a spider's web
catches my face
telling me
secrets

you can't get into my soul, you can't

to the
unpaid labor on
my idea of happiness,
delusions of grandeur,
what lazy
misconceptions!

I will chase you
from me
and cut out of
this weed cocoon.

I don't need
you
I never needed
you!

bent trees revenge

When I was younger my family went camping quite often. A big part of camping for me was carving sticks, or I believe the proper term is whittling. On one trip to upstate New York, I wandered away from our campsite in search of a young tree about the width of a quarter. Selecting one, I touched it's smooth bark, saw that it had few branches and decided that it would make a fine walking stick. In order to snap the tree at it's base, I bent it down to the ground and stood on it. After a few back and fourths, I could smell the freshness of the wood and realized it would not easily snap. I bent it down to the ground again, only this time the tree escaped from beneath my feet and sprang upward striking me directly in the face. For a moment all I saw was black, then I ran screaming back to the campsite. Within minutes I felt a throbbing pain in my face as the bruise blackened one of my eyes. After I stopped crying my parents thought it was funny.

imagine that you are building a robot. which brain parts do you think would be especially important for a robot, and why?

I feel like a million cups of coffee
have you ever eaten a sugar packet?
like chewed and swallowed the paper and all
if I could build a catapult out of
sugar cubes and coffee stirrers
I would like to get a job as a
coffee stirrer
but i'll quit if they
make me wear
a name-tag
I fucking hate name-tags

red flags fire, firing

shark cartilage as a cure for cancer
sharks cancer less frequently
you're laughing yourself into wellness
my friend is fire-walking down the sidewalk
sweating in your sweat lodge
feet didn't burn
didn't learn
nothing vs. everything
paradigm
it's time to shift your

mindlessness matter
your life blind study
sugar pill
from capital hill
while the sound of the rain
your pain
keeps coming and it's going
while the patients
sleeping in the train station
and their brains don't work the
same since

you made'em happy
choking down that burger
on the tv and your

in the bathroom
since your stomach went crappy
all by itself pouring
down into the bowl

rainy day

I.

the rain
drugged them onto
the couch
and the wind blew it all away
he sat there half-
listening when he asked her
"what did you learn in class today?"
"girls hear more
words than boys," she said
"girls use both sides
of their brains more,
they have a higher vocabulary"
"because they
are always talking"

II.

when he
dropped her off at class
the crazy gate lady only said "fine day to do that"
and he
was surprised because
she wasn't taking
her job so
seriously today

sitting in class
the girl sitting
next to him
proudly
said
"stanford binet"

nobody

I was told
to put this
here by my
friend.

He doesn't want
anyone to
know who
he is, or
what he
looks like.

He asked me
if I could
do him a
favor by
placing this
here for
someone to
find.

Congratulations
you found it!

guilty and stupid

The weekend wrecked the house
high, today is a cold, March morning and the basement is still hung lower
Last night I said, "We both did it so we can't be mad at each other"
but that's dangerous thinking
we'd been drinking
the song is over.

the bike parade

stringing
streamers
into our spokes
tying them to
trail from our
handlebars
red
white
blue

wrapping around the frame
of a melting ice pop

Lips

what I'm trying to say
thinking by judging their shape
Sometimes I don't know what to do with my lips
they are unusually large and feel people
know
they are not resting
properly in certain social situations
If I smile, people will look at
still, looking
at them wondering why they never move.
If I frown, people will
literally in the way of
everything I am trying to say
about how to wield them
in the way of
nervous sometimes and
Sometimes my lips get 

for the wooden hand sanitizer post

Oh wooden hand sanitizer post,
standing tall at the edge of the tile floor
You offer so much more than sanitized hands
masterfully constructed of timber
stained cherry brown,
like a beacon of hope to the
students walking in the library
Providing us peace of mind
A weapon in the war against germs
You are lonely and jealous of bathroom sinks
yet constantly offer protection
We take you for granted
with our strong immune systems
Only I notice your yearning for sweaty palms
they neglect your healthy gel!
You just want to be held
rubbed in
relied on

last night I had a dream I was at my neighbor’s house
with a red headed kid I went to school with
and a random fat girl.

She pulled out 2 baggies.
One had a bunch of multicolored pills.
They looked like the candy Spree.
I assumed it was ecstasy. 
The other bag was filled with what looked like tiny fruit loops.

 “We stopped at Bonnaroo and bought these,”

 “What are those?” I said pointing to the bag of miniature breakfast cereal.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“I’ll be back in a little bit,” I said.

I Talked To God On Chatroulette vol. 1 & 2

Volume 2.

There is a three click combo required to move to the next person on Omegle that I use to skip through the never ending parade of dicks. In case you haven't rolled face, you don’t know, the average user is a dude waiting for someone or something to watch him flog his dolphin. There are also young looking girls, oblivious middle aged suburbanites, and Justin Bieber lookalikes. It is not a very broad cultural spectrum? There are very few intellectual conversions. Every once in a while you get the exception to the rule. I talked to him for about 45 minutes. I don’t know why he was there, I guess no one would notice him and he could work efficiently. Maybe he was just bored or something.

He looked stoned. He sat at an unusually small mahogany desk littered with several newspapers worth of scraps of paper in every shape, color, and size. There were ideas stacked on top of ideas, collages coming out of collages, and the byproducts of ideas, both the inside and outside edges of what he had cut out. There was a black cat sitting in his lap purring so loudly I could hear it through my laptop’s speakers. “What’s your cat’s name,” I asked. “Mr. Skribbles," he said. "S-K-R-I-B-B-L-E-S"

I told him about how I also like to make collages and he smiled. He encouraged me, and he said making things is the most important action of the human race. He said mostly old people talked to him, and that I sounded unusually young.

“Creativity is one of my most complicated and rewarding gifts,” he said with an old man's vibrato.

"What of everything on earth then made in your image?" I asked. He paused for exactly one minute, and said

“It is only made of scrap." After that he sat quietly for a moment until in an instant his flailing arms tore into a looming stack of coffee mugs, and when they exploded over his head I thought he was dead. As he lie there I thought about who he could possibly be, and found no reason to believe it wasn't him. I’m think it was him.

He awoke and sat very still. I asked him “May I see some of your work,” and he nodded his head yes. Then he went away from the camera for a while and I started to worry. I hoped I hadn’t scared him away by asking too many personal questions.  I heard his footsteps on his wooden floors then there right on the screen, he appeared from that long whitewalled hallway with all of his original charcoal sketches of the animals, watercolors of each of the seven seas, and a white ceramic dove.  “How did you get the idea for humans?” I asked. “I thought of it in the shower,” he replied.

My face could not hold any emotion. Looking back on my life, I had gotten (or been had,  as he would of said it) many ideas while taking showers too. Most of them were not very good, but in a memorable sort of way. “Show me some of your work,” he said.

“I made this collage out of a surfing magazine,” I told him as I held it up to the camera. “Very nice,” he said. “My friend Russ is real good at drawing demons, here is the url to his tumblr,” I said. I watched him type it in, then watched his face as he looked into the screen. “Spooky,” he said.

“I have to go feed my cats now,” he said. “Nice to meet you,”

I said, but I don’t think he heard me; After a little I thought what if he didn't have to go feed his cats. If that's what he says to everyone he is about to next, maybe he lied? Maybe he nexted me. Maybe he simply wanted to talk to someone else who was out there, all alone, clicking through the dicks. And I wasn't the only person in the world with something interesting to say. Maybe he wanted me to see that I would find plenty of good conversation in many other people all around the world, face-to-face. After a while I didn't go on Omegle, or Chatroulette, or anywhere on the internet, like it's actually a place. My whole life I've learned not to trust anything on the internet and that is why it is so strange that I believe it was really him. Well, even if it wasn't him, he was nice. 

Volume 1. 

It wasn’t even something I had wanted. He was so ordinary, unaware, and even reckless. The glow of the TV was reflecting on my face, an ever-changing spotlight. She sat there expecting the worst. Think of every possible way to jerk off and then multiply that by ten. For a while I held my fist up to the webcam saying, “pound it”, with pretty good results. If they replied with a pound, I said a drawn out “yeah” then said, “have a good night” and “nexted” them. I alternated between “what’s up dawg?” and “what’s up negro?” as a greeting. They were all very different, rarely judgmental.

He was sitting in what looked like a crowded computer lab that could have been anywhere in the world. He was some kind of Asian and there were little kids scampering about behind him.  I am not sure whether he spoke English, as a matter of fact; he never said or typed anything. He either nodded or shook his head, and he sometimes looked completely uninterested in our conversation, but then he would nod or shake his head, as if he had been listening the entire time. He didn’t answer most of my questions and she thought he was some kind of creeper. Just sitting there, like some kind of master of facial expressions.

I asked him about everything. Mostly morality, philosophy, science, religion, culture, daytime television and soap operas, whether or not he watched Dog The Bounty Hunter, and abortion. I reverted to yes or no questions, because when I asked open-ended questions he simply ignored the question. By this time, my girlfriend told me she was bored with how things were going, and wanted me to stop. At one point, I looked out the window and said “it’s snowing out,” and he smiled. He had on these big headphones that divided his Afro into separate hemispheres.

I made a joke about Sarah Palin and he laughed uncontrollably for several minutes. I asked him “Is there an afterlife?” and he began to flap his arms like a bird, and I felt embarrassed. I didn’t know what to think. His face was an explosion of several emotions of which I cannot describe. She fell asleep.

He showed me the pinch pots he had made in his ceramics class. He held each one up to the webcam. He talked to the clay, but not with words. Now that I think about it, he did type one thing. He gave me Kim Jong Ils cell phone number. I was confused at first but he just kept nodding and smiling, and then I felt a little better. I felt like I knew what he intended at the time but have long since forgotten.

I bent down and kissed her on the forehead. She was tired, and I was getting tired. I finished my vodka and peach juice, finished hers, and he finished whatever he was drinking. I should have asked him more important questions. I should have obtained ”the answers” But he didn’t answer any of my serious questions. It seemed almost as if he just wanted to enjoy the experience of talking to someone over the Internet.

"How many Spongebob icepops have you had in your life?"

"...Probably more than five."

via: http://nothewhale.blogspot.com/

Your just gonna have to sit there and no think about it
Running screaming
With a head full of knives

via: http://nothewhale.blogspot.com/

LBI

Right by the water
and salt air

Underneath
the current

There are
bullets

There are
bombs

There are
booty traps

The houses
are

air

-conditioned

There are
sleeping babies

I talked to God on Chatroulette vol. 1

It wasn’t even something I had wanted. He was so ordinary, unaware, and even reckless. The glow of the TV was reflecting on my face, an ever-changing spotlight. She sat there expecting the worst. Think of every possible way to jerk off and then multiply that by ten. For a while I held my fist up to the webcam saying, “pound it”, with pretty good results. If they replied with a pound, I said a drawn out “yeah” then said, “have a good night” and “nexted” them. I alternated between “what’s up dawg?” and “what’s up negro?” as a greeting. They were all very different, rarely judgmental.

He was sitting in what looked like a crowded computer lab that could have been anywhere in the world. He was some kind of Asian and there were little kids scampering about behind him.  I am not sure whether he spoke English, as a matter of fact; he never said or typed anything. He either nodded or shook his head, and he sometimes looked completely uninterested in our conversation, but then he would nod or shake his head, as if he had been listening the entire time. He didn’t answer most of my questions and she thought he was some kind of creeper. Just sitting there, like some kind of master of facial expressions.

I asked him about everything. Mostly morality, philosophy, science, religion, culture, daytime television and soap operas, whether or not he watched Dog The Bounty Hunter, and abortion. I reverted to yes or no questions, because when I asked open-ended questions he simply ignored the question. By this time, my girlfriend told me she was bored with how things were going, and wanted me to stop. At one point, I looked out the window and said “it’s snowing out,” and he smiled. He had on these big headphones that divided his Afro into separate hemispheres.

I made a joke about Sarah Palin and he laughed uncontrollably for several minutes. I asked him “Is there an afterlife?” and he began to flap his arms like a bird, and I felt embarrassed. I didn’t know what to think. His face was an explosion of several emotions of which I cannot describe. She fell asleep.

He showed me the pinch pots he had made in his ceramics class. He held each one up to the webcam. He talked to the clay, but not with words. Now that I think about it, he did type one thing. He gave me Kim Jong Ils cell phone number. I was confused at first but he just kept nodding and smiling, and then I felt a little better. I felt like I knew what he intended at the time but have long since forgotten.

I bent down and kissed her on the forehead. She was tired, and I was getting tired. I finished my vodka and peach juice, finished hers, and he finished whatever he was drinking. I should have asked him more important questions. I should have obtained ”the answers” But he didn’t answer any of my serious questions. It seemed almost as if he just wanted to enjoy the experience of talking to someone over the Internet.

I talked to God on Chatroulette vol. 2

 There is a three click combo required to move to the next person on Omegle that I use to skip through the never ending parade of dicks. In case you haven't rolled face, you don’t know, the average user is a dude waiting for someone or something to watch him flog his dolphin. There are also young looking girls, oblivious middle aged suburbanites, and Justin Bieber lookalikes. It is not a very broad cultural spectrum? There are very few intellectual conversions. Every once in a while you get the exception to the rule. I talked to him for about 45 minutes. I don’t know why he was there, I guess no one would notice him and he could work efficiently. Maybe he was just bored or something.

 He looked stoned. He sat at an unusually small mahogany desk littered with several newspapers worth of scraps of paper in every shape, color, and size. There were ideas stacked on top of ideas, collages coming out of collages, and the byproducts of ideas, both the inside and outside edges of what he had cut out. There was a black cat sitting in his lap purring so loudly I could hear it through my laptop’s speakers. “What’s your cat’s name,” I asked. “Mr. Skribbles," he said. "S-K-R-I-B-B-L-E-S"

 I told him about how I also like to make collages and he smiled. He encouraged me, and he said making things was the primary function of human beings, and that mostly old people talked to him.

“Creativity is one of my most complicated and rewarding gifts,” he said with an old man's vibrato.
"What of everything on earth then made in your image?" I asked. He paused for exactly one minute, and said
“It is only made of scrap." After that he sat quietly for a moment until instantaneously his flailing arms tore into a looming stack of coffee mugs, which then exploded over his head, I thought he was dead. As he lie there I thought about who he could possibly be, and found no reason to believe it wasn't him. I’m think it was him.

 He awoke and sat very still. I asked him “May I see some of your work,” and he nodded his head yes. Then he went away from the camera for a while and I started to worry. I hoped I hadn’t scared him away by asking too many personal questions.  I heard his footsteps on the wooden floors and then he appeared from down a long whitewalled hallway with all of his original charcoal sketches of the animals, watercolors of each of the seven seas, and a white ceramic dove.  “How did you get the idea for humans?” I asked. “I thought of it in the shower,” he replied.

My face could not hold any emotion. Looking back on my life, I've been getting ideas while taking showers since I was a little kid. Most of them were not very good, but in a memorable sort of way.
 “Show me some of your work,” he said.

 “I made this collage out of a surfing magazine,” I told him as I held it up to the camera. “Very nice,” he said. “My friend is real good at drawing demons, here is the url to his tumblr,” I said. I watched him type it in, then watched his face as he looked into the screen. “Spooky,” he said.

 “I have to go feed my cats now,” he said. I said “Nice to meet you,” but I don’t think he heard me; After a little I thought what if he didn't have to go feed his cats. If that's what he says to everyone he is about to next, maybe he lied? Maybe he nexted me. Maybe he simply wanted to talk to someone else who was out there, all alone, clicking through the dicks. And I wasn't the only person in the world with something interesting to say. Maybe he wanted me to see that I would find someone better to talk to. 

The Bike Parade

            

barefoot beach

Let the ocean ground
my poems into sand,

Curse the salted bird!
My senses are sharp reflections

diamonds of sun on water.

Putting them back together,
I cut my fingers on shards of thoughts


To think like a rock tumbler!
a body of water callous to broken bottles,
I will keep them in my head


Until they are polished
and then I will put my sea glass
into a lamp

made out of a jar,
beside my bed.


written and revised for Julia Chang's creative writing class at Rowan University, Spring '11

Once there was a boy and a house
the boy asked the house,
"am I happy?"
and the house said, "no"
the next day the boy played guitar
inside the house and asked the house,
"am I happy?"
and the house said, "no"
the next day the boy invited
his friends over to play
music in the house
then the boy asked the house,
"am I happy?"
and the house said, "no"
many days later the boy asked the house,
"does anyone live here?"
and the house said nothing.

to contention (be content)
with what you have
build a home
with what you have

to precede (be preceding)
complication
merging present
and future

to examine (be examining)
predictions
and past

to clarify (be clarifying)
new information
with yourself as
an example

for Richard Brautigan

sometimes
i think about fucking you
and sometimes
it won't go away until i'm
fucking you

in the heat of the house
you'll always be a mouse
out in the fire of the sun
we are always on the run

to make everyone happy
with numbers on the floor
and shoes untied
they will all leave today
and go away or stay
to tell the moon
to make the flowers bloom

on the west creek

glad you're mad
i didn't call you
aboard a kayak
fighting off spiders
with a paddle

to know you
waited, thinking
through murky
parkway tunnels
under fallen trees

on beautiful days
deep in the forest
I'm thinking about
the same things
and vice versa

you miss your mornings
this is just something that I know
under covers
with no happiness under the bed

Listen to fan sounds
this is your reward
for science
you left the party

Sleep it all under the rug
don't feel important
to talk to everyone you know
about your problems

Don't wanna function
with no happiness in your head
to find the answers
for science

does she seem as she seems
are we a part of me
i mean a lot of things
a dream wish art dream
expressing harmony
every thought a leaf
what you think
what you wanna be
it's important
simply expanding
we don't know how to
express ourselves
without water or nutrients
and all the benefits
of a modern society
but we're just
climbing trees

first words with the morning water

fans
dots
oscillators
points
places you want
to be filled
with what i have
beautiful eyes and
beautiful everythings
your basement has a
comfortable couch
first words with the morning water

in cursive

dinosaurs are fuel
you think you're cool
driving in to school

six haikus

 1.

a poem for the pines
to me everything was there
Godfrey's bridge campground

2.

I drive by the beach
pepperoni pie for you
thank you for the tip

3.

small poems in my head
come out onto the page now
my hand writes "goodbye"

4.

one hundred degrees
tomorrow we start early
it will suck so bad

5.

my groin hurts to move
skimboarding is for pussyslut
the sun burned my back

6.

hourly rate low
off by eight seven cents
pay me by friday

beach haiku

the water was cold
the air was so very hot
the beach was perfect

short critiques

"the face of the clock was clean
as the numbers bled to the floor
and onto my guilty hands...
I killed time."
-Amy Sarisky, Sayreville War Memorial H.S. Grade 12

I want to kill time too
not like
kill time as in pass the time,
kill as in the numbers
bleed to the floor.

"Como esta usted?
Spanish test--now I'm dead"
-Dan Dougherty, Grade 10

I want to rhyme Spanish words with English words.

"I am snow, yet I am beginning to melt."
last line of "Angela Abstinence" by Carmen Cisco

I have melted, but I would like to turn back into snow.

"I am blue - bold as the night
I am as brave as the open sea
I am blue and I am a beautiful sight"
-Amy Rastiello, Grade 8

I believe alliteration of the letter B is beautiful.

"I could go on and on
with things that rhyme with day
But I won't because
That'll take all day"
-Troy Youhas, Grade 8

I wish I could rhyme day with day in such a clever way.

"If I could do anything
I would not change anything"
-Ivellise Acevedo, Grade 9

Maybe if I couldn't do anything, I would change everything.

"Happiness is a light pink sea shell
That crawls on the bottom of the ocean
And takes the sadness out of you"
-"Happines" by Mike Brown, Grade 6

I wish I wrote like Mike Brown did when I was in 6th grade.

"The Pilgrims Sailed the Seas" by Mia Sapienza

I wonder what Mia Sapienza is up to these days.

but boy was I

and I wrote nonsense notebooks
but boy was I wrong
and I tried to set myself free
but boy was I wrong
and I felt better as the words left me
to sit there on that page!
but boy was I wrong
and I thought that I was worthless
but boy was I wrong
and I thought that I was a genius
but boy was I wrong
and I thought that I'd find my way
but boy was I wrong
and I thought I'd be lost forever
but boy was I wrong
and I thought that I was right
but boy was I wrong
and I thought that I was wrong
but boy was I wrong

I will with you

I will die with you
when I hear that you've died
but I'll go on living
as a cloud in your sky

I will cry with you
forever after you've died
and my tears will fill the ocean
as a cloud in your sky

I will die with you
when you die and I
will fill the ocean with tears
as a cloud in the sky

I will cry with you
when you cry and I
will fill the ocean with tears
as a cloud in the sky

I will fly with you
when you fly and I
will float over your waves
as a bird on your shore

Our drug

Our drug
has been approved by the FDA
So that means it's ok.
ok?
ok,
it's ok!
and you'll be ok
as long as someone pays

in a non-monetary way
you'll pay

the medium is the message

stoplight haiku

my stoplight haiku
I couldn't finish writing
the light turned green fast

the Philadelphia Art Museum

While browsing
through the gun exhibit,
I saw Silent Jay in his parachute pants
long blond hair, and
was that some sort of beenie?

I forgot what his girlfriend looked like.

for B (ode to Cobain)

I'm not your hero
I'm not brilliant
you're an idiot
(you don't
know why
you like
them, but
you do)
she's the one
she likes all my pretty poems
and she likes to read along
and she likes to
paint her nails.

the tv never gets
turned on posters
hang on drywall
underground no
window dreams
about windsurfing

permutations on ceres park

this is a very nice home
for fish
besides the traffic noise
great shade from
green plants

this is a very nice poem
for wish
besides the spastic boy
a very nice poem
great shade thumb
weed plants

bliss is a very nice comb
for happiness
besides the traffic noise
a very nice home
clean thumbs
for happiness

bliss is the hurried comb
happy noise
besides joy
for clean thumbs

"Yes, men! men! and there was no more poison left. He picked up the cash-box and showed them it's black emptiness "You're free!""
-John the Savage in Brave New World

"No, women! women! and there was plenty more freedom left. She picked up the poverty-box and withheld from them it's white fullness "You're poisoned!""

watching the wealth channel while drunk

why
not
own a million dollar yacht
because your dog will take a
shit
on the floor

why
not
buy something
to prevent
the
mess

last night I had a dream...(9)

last night I had a dream that there was a curse in the doorway
If my body wasn’t symmetrical or entered at the wrong time
Something terrible would happen

last night I had a dream...(8)

last night I had a dream three hummingbirds got into my apartment
through an open window and I couldn’t get them out
I awoke in terror as one flew into my neck

last night I had a dream...(7)

last night I had a dream that Wiz Khalifa was to play a show in the front yard of Girard. His opening act was some kind of booty shake contest. My Dad was there and Wiz called him "Arnie" or some other nickname for Arnold Shwarzeneggar because he is tall. There were also gangsters and little kids in costumes.

I climbed a tree and walked out on a branch, but jumped off when I heard it begin to crack. After the opening act, I texted and called you, but you didn't answer. You texted back "I love you."

Then Wiz and his crew disappeared and I assumed they were smoking somewhere. I went looking for them inside of the house. I crouched and looked down the stairs, they weren't there. The little kids in costumes started fighting each other and their moms tried to break them up. A car stopped in the road but someone told it to keep going.

last night I had a dream...(6)

Last night I had a dream I was in a high school classroom with a young and beautiful stupid female teacher. A kid came into the room and said something to her. I couldn't hear what they were saying. Then she and he went out in the hallway and the class heard them yelling at each other.

"What did he say to her?" I asked.
"He told her this class is a Ponzi scheme," said a boy sitting next to me. He also told me that the kid had been having a rough couple of days and was found earlier with a plastic soda bottle in his mouth, root beer.
The teacher came back into the room and kept talking as the bell rang. The kids crowded around the door and as soon as the bravest kid left they all did.

flash forward

I am walking home from class through Campus Crossings and I hear someone playing guitar in an upstairs apartment. I climb the stairwell, walk inside, and it's my friend Mike.
"You wanna play the (name of guitar I can't remember)?" he asked.
"Yeah, but look, there's this crazy kid walking around there," I said. He was holding a gun and yelling. I tried to look at him without being seen. I thought about dialing 9-1-1, and then I did, but it was the wrong number.

The class was standing in a circle around the crazy kid. I was trying not to look at him and then I did. He saw me looking at him and said "Why is everyone looking at me!"

Then a big van pulled onto the grass and parked. It had large tires and was very heavy duty looking, like an ambulance. The words "Mental Health" were on the side of it. The people in the van got out, opened the door, and the kid got in, no problems. I don't know what happened to the gun.

last night I had a dream...(5)

last night I had a dream I was in the House of Blues, it wasn't the one in Showboat, but it was in a casino. I left the theater carrying two empty bottles wanting to gamble. I went down an elevator then outside. There were two people standing there.
"How do I get to the casino?" I asked them. They pointed me down a dark city street and told me I would have to walk through New Brunswick. I peered into the abyss. "Is it a long walk?" I asked and they said yes.
Then I went back inside and asked two girls how to get back to the Student Center. They knew the way and we got into the elevator.

last night I had a dream...(4)

last night I had a dream
I was sitting in a class
to the right of a fat lady
teacher with
her tit hanging out
she was twistin' that nipple
I was unsure whether anyone
 (besides me) noticed

Today during a completely unrelated incident...
I said   "That was like an alarm clock from hell."

last night I had a dream...(3)

last night I had a dream
I was in a bathtub
alongside a naked fat lady
and there was another fat lady, clothed
sitting on a chair, next to the tub
she wanted us to give her dog a bath

I dreamt this lying in a hammock at a secret campsite off of the Batona trail.

last night I had a dream...(2)

last night I had a dream that I was in a WaWa, or Heritage's, or something. I was with someone (I can't remember who) and I wasn't planning on buying anything, then I got really hungry. I leaned on the counter of the deli.
"I'm starving," I said to the deli worker. "I want a sandwich."
"What do you want on it?" he asked.
I knew I wanted roast beef and I think I told him that. He started saying something and I said "Make it how you would like it. Make it good," and he made it. I paid with my Rowan card and the cashier started to give me fifteen dollars in change.
"Here's ten," he said handing me the money. I took it. "Just one second and I'll give you the five," he said.
"Does he still have my Rowan card?" I thought to myself feeling it in my pocket, no. As he was handing me the five I gave the person I was with an "Is this guy serious?" look.
"Wait, didn't I pay with Rowan card, why are you giving me this?" I asked.
"You failed the test," he said.
"What do you mean? I just tried to give it back."
"It's too late. You took the money. You failed the test."
"So you test everyone who comes in here like this?" I asked. He nodded. "Don't you lose a lot of money?"
"No, most people pass the test," he said.

last night I had a dream... (1)

last night I had a dream
I got shot behind a grocery store
The bullet entered my body on
the right side, just above my hip
and exited on the left
I told the cops and they
brushed it off and didn't
call an ambulance
I watched the blood spurting out,
but then it stopped
The holes were small
I was all right
I didn't die

You and Ways To Make A Woman Fall In Love With You

brave new world

I won't answer
when you call me
because I am nervous
without my coffee

I dream of soma
and how it's alarming
because I'm an Alpha
and how I'm charming

I'd make a perfect loser
with my stupid body
but I can do better
thanks to Aldous Huxley

struggling to make it into the clean
duck diving with greater
 frequency than any
duck i have ever seen

i am too weak, she has me beat no!
charge into the destruction!
almost there! almost free!
i am almost drowned!

my face meets a glassy face
as i take my place in the sea

If I could just play instruments forever,
I would be happy.

If I could feel the bass, guitar, drums, vocals, keys, flutes, trumpets, trombones, tubas, saxes, clarinets, oboes, French horn, xylophone, bells, gong, cymbals, sitars, banjos, mandolins, violins, violas, jaw harps, spoons, harmonicas, melodicas, harmonicals, brass, woodwind, percussion,  cow bell, conga, bongo, tambourine, scream, cry, moan, weep, belt, falsetto, grunt, and squeal,
all at the same time,
I would be happy.

If I could be completely honest with myself and everyone around me,
I would be happy.

my soul is stored in my scent like swimming pools

my soul is stored in my scent like swimming pools

the ground was soaking wet
"comprehension type questions"
and the dinner plates were set
"just ease of test taking"
and he expected to leave
"due to negative stereotypes"
and just after they eat
"they will confirm the stereotypes of their group"
and as she went to sleep
"threat, just informing"
everything was soaking wet

pronounce: heritability

the bottles chilled
"...analytic, requires meta-cognition"
and he thought about the futurist (from the video)
"a little higher than cognition"
and he was none of those things
"and then practical"
and his broken wings
"for achieving your goals"
and he felt it inside
"intelligence can mean many different things"
and he knew he would die
"you may be weak in one area"
and he knew it was called psychogenic death
"you may be stronger in another"

he wanted to pass
"around the third grade, IQ levels out"
and kids inhaling smoke
"the culture"
got wrong, the answer

for Dash Snow

i'm not alive
i'm not tired
i'm not right
my head hurts so bad
my stomach too
i've got nothing to do
light hurts my eyes
so i stared at the screen
read like a fiend
doing drugs in a hamsters nest
i read they laid him to rest
the new york post they
lost their biggest fan,
needle in hand
showed them art
showed them garbage man

she's gonna notice you tonite

get her by
lovely line
ultra fine
super solid

better to have
never tried
ever fried
side of salad

built upon
really high
self reply
every answer

if i am
somewhat kind
perfect minds
will scare her

blame it on
stupid tries
shifty eyes
to make you nervous

it's not about
what's inside
or whats outside
floating all around us

whenever i see my pretty girl
(it's like she has diamonds in her eyes)
shining bright like the sun
and i have to look away
that light bounces back and forth
(the light cancels itself)
it's like we don't have to look
and i just know we're an even match
a pair most likely meant to be

love is
a boy with a bullet,
a girl with a gun
passionately wondering
how to kill themselves
at the same time
but on every try
they only make a mess

should they spoon and
shoot through the stomach?
or look eye to eye
before they die?
on every try
they only make a mess

on the fourth floor
i asked you for more
shelves of books
lighted looks
by the front door
i kissed and adored
shapes of hips
tastes of lips
on the screen porch
i lit a kerosene torch
packs of matches
matches and matches

leaving myself in ceres park

underneath the bridge
water sounds bouncing
trucks rolling vs. minivans
my handwriting is very loose right now
no more self awareness in poems
(a break from car noises)
i

oh there is no i
the tree said "why?"
to the other tree listening passionately
why do i have to live next to this noise?
because you love it
you
oh there is no you
"ask the rust"

i caught the rust asleep
oh there is no i
architecture
not i said the architecture
with no bullets
ask the rust what it can do for you
oh there is no you
there is only speech and the creek

A conversation between Melatonin, Oxcytocin, Adrenal Hormones, and Sex Hormones

           The four of them sat in a circle around a small picture of a campfire. There were very few beers left. The boxes had piled up into the Mt. Everest of alcoholism.

          "Everything fucking sucks," said Melatonin.

          "I know," said Oxytocin.

          "I want to fuck this one teacher I have," said Sex Hormones.

          "Chill out negroes, tonight is gonna be fuckin insano," said Adrenal Hormones.

          "I was watching Dog The Bounty Hunter last night, shit was fucking cash,"

          "That show fucking sucks bro, what were you thinking dog?"

          "Fuck you man, that show is cool," said Melatonin.

          "I'm hungry," barked Adrenal Hormones.

           Melatonin spoke only after finishing his beer.

          "Don't worry I've packed enough cheese sandwiches to last a millennium." 

dogs. german sheppards

you survived 5 rounds

"this will give you some inspiration"

all good things in all good time

just sayin

i'll introduce you to this kid

the sea shell motel

the keurig complications

usage of sometimes

a tong  prong snapped off a plastic fork

affirmative lyricism

1/16th of a bottle of Windsor Canadian

dates, the concept of dates

numbers that exist in the future

everything blended together

his life was an art project

a Caterpillar with the munchies

on a tobacco leaf

we want the funk

drive his boat and shit

supernatural powers

beat the zombies

Open The Fucking Pool

We are sitting on the back porch in the sun. There are give or take six or seven dudes chilling smoking cigarettes, and one female German Sheppard named Aurora.

"I have this surf spot I go to in my dreams, I've only ever been there in my dreams"

Sun is shining, the weather is sweet


"It's a rock point break, so shallow its scary"

I think about the people I've seen surfing there and consciously decide to exclude them from my story.

Make you wanna move your dancing feet

Brant stared blankly into his imagination. Today was the warmest day we'd had in a long while, since that bitch of a winter started dumping snow.

I really like this bassline. I wonder who the bassist is on this song?

"I'd like to go there someday in real life, I mean if it is a real place, it'd be weird to actually be there" I said.

"Deja vu" Brent digested.

To the rescue here I am


"That's really cool man" he said.

When the morning gathers a rainbow


We continued talking for a while until I had misheard him.

Want you to know I'm a rainbow too


"Superhero?" I asked.

"Subaru" he corrected.

We stood out on the back porch for a while, then we chased the dog around the backyard. When we got tired of standing on the back porch, we went out the front porch and played in the street and on the sidewalk. We threw a football, rode bikes, and most importantly skateboards.

Some time later I would type "who plays bass on sun is shining by bob marley" into Google and I found him.

 His name is Aston "Family Man" Barrett. His Wikipedia page says  "Family Man's nickname derives from the fact that he has 42 children"

Theres no earthly way of knowing

which direction we are going

Theres no knowing where we're rowing

Or which way the rivers flowing

Is it raining? Is it snowing?

Is a hurricane a blowing?

Not a speck of light is showing 

So the danger must be growing

By the fires of hell a glowing

Is the grizzly reaper mowing?

Yes! 

The danger must be growing

for the rowers keep on rowing

and their certainly not showing

any sign that they are slowing

Ahhhhh!

warm as a waterfall in alaska but chiller than ice in the desert

we’re riding bikes to your house cause it’s a party on the 
the west coast
in a wet suit

“I know that I know nothing” –Socrates

         

those white cranes fishing in the marsh

nervousness, anxiety, stress, and heavy things
like something you can't get off your hands, like oil paint.
highly permanent thoughts like billboards, dreams,
and casinos were those white cranes fishing in the marsh.

The feeling that there are only eight thousand whales left in the whole ocean.

baited
we owe nothing to animals
higher intelligence
hated

Like the feeling of terror, who was himself, plus the feeling of terror's brother and his friends.


the feeling of terror tried to do his laundry this morning, but his bare feet felt the cold soaked carpet. the repairman came and supposedly fixed the washing machine yesterday. the feeling told his room mate to call the landlord and say, "we are sitting on top of the mt. kilimanjaro of laundry."

Sun gone come out, it's a long summer


sun gone come out
it's a long summer
for your somehow
for your bummer
rain gone come down
on your lover
sun gone come out
it's a long summer

• Clocks and the concept of time
• When you don't know you have something on you/in your teeth

What will you think?"Just reach up"

Forever resounding waves of sound fill the air and tremble the ground...

pg.2

to no be affected, compromised, misled, undiscovered, quiet,

there is a farm in the country with cows and fields

to accept reality, future, present, past, every dimension

(in my dream i was at a funeral and did something

wrong. i almost grabbed/knocked over this candle

and the person behind me was like "what are you

doing?" i had to touch this thing but i did

it wrong and they made me do it again

God moving over the water. the ocean

peace through meditation, no tobacco, none at all

that strange feeling that never leaves uncle

he's milling around in the melting snow

he's waiting for you to start your car

like life is just taking up space, jams

there is a farm in the country with cows and fields

but no chickens, foxes, or rabbits,

loud noises coming from the workers underground

have you met my pet hamster? he's a Russian dwarf,

enjoys belly dancing and those things that skinny people

commercializing poetry, commercialized nonsense

God moving over the water, the ocean

there is a farm in the country with cows and fields

to not be judged in a condescending manner

a saw sawing, a television, and a Christmas tree

a sticker that says "made in japan"

to not read every word but instead view the whole

that strange feeling that never completely leaves

he's underneath the floor, in the walls, and above the ceiling fan

he's in your living room scanning through "Birds of North America"

to allow things to happen making nothing into something

there is a farm in the country with cows and fields

 I am heating an unusually large cup of coffee. I put half-and-half in it, no sugar. I hope it will cure me. He woke up each day to feelings of __________, _________, and having to take a shit. That’s all he ever did, _______ and took shits. Plus he drank coffee, beer, whiskey, and smoked ____. It sucked. Typing was an activity that felt strange. Typing was like reading, but reading your thoughts. I feel like every sentence is some kind of gimmick. I don’t like what I write. I probably like 10% of what I write. I don’t expect anyone to like what I write. It’s mostly stupid, doom and gloom, bullshit. I find comfort in contradictions though. (wtf am i talking about?) I guess the purpose is to make me feel better. I guess that’s all I really care about and I guess that seems really selfish. But I’m actually a pretty nice person with a lot of potential. Sometimes I forget how happy I should be. He wrote pages of bullshit, stored on his laptop computer, until one day a virus corrupted his hard drive. Nothing was lost, but everything was lost. “It was the best of times, and the worst of times” It is a dream so real that when you wake up, it takes a little while to realize that it never happened. I am almost finished with this cup of coffee and feel a shit coming on. Some of my hobbies include drinking coffee and taking shits. It was very nice to meet you.  I will begin typing a new story:

            Finished cup of coffee.

            “Philosophy is just interesting, hard to understand questions. I would like to see myself as someone who enjoys asking interesting questions.” The other day while driving I thought this. I wanted to write something down then, but I was driving. I texted “I have to go on vacation, type abt the things ive done” Sometimes I am unsure whether or not I ask interesting questions or have done interesting things. I thought I was having interesting thoughts that were interesting enough to be written down.

            If you open all of the drawers on my dresser it will tip over. It doesn’t sound like Sartre, or now that I just smoked, Klosterman, but instead I wouldn’t mind if it sounded like Twain or Brautigan. I hope it sounds like music. This is a mixtape, jj’s Kills. I am listening to this mixtape right now. It sounds like E.E. Cummings. 

It is written in a manner which, when listening, reads better. Itreads instantly the eye meets the screen/page. 


While driving, I also thought about music criticism, partly because I listened to some NPR discussion, and realized I should never write about how much I liked the albums or how good I think they are. Instead, how the music has come into my life, and the permanence of its existence. The process of falling in love with music often begins on a bad note. But over time/listening, things even out enough to make accurate opinions/create strong bonds. Familiar music has more/less memories attached to it. That’s why most music critics... I don’t have a Polaroid camera. I'm not part of the vinyl revolution. Why argue over something like music? Sometimes music culture/criticism gets in the way of the crescendos, bass lines, and 6/4 time, along with guitar solos. Leave them alone. I’m not saying that talent isn’t attached to commercial success, but fuck anyone who ever thought that popularity, commercial success, or “virality” is relevant to the successes of art. I apologize; bad language is a side effect of my inability to creatively describe my emotions. I don't like this tone. This piece of writing may simply be a bumbling tumble of gumballs, spit in a gym locker. 

             I wonder what writer will be the first to publish a novel on a smart phone, or maybe this already happened. But like, the first writer/artist/musician to be known in the future of history as the original. He or She is alive right now. We may never learn his, her, or their names. Is that a correct sentence?


The snow is melting, Notorious B.I.G. is rapping over this jj shit.

One sip of coffee left.

            So the moral of the story is that coffee is delicious, and music is good.

Takes last sip of cold coffee.

            This is a tale of bravery, of choosing the music to have and hold forever. Searching the internet in a quest for the most relatable, rocking, rolling, jamming, melodic, chick singers, band/musicians with original sounds, to be blessed with the flooded-abundance of undiscovered music floating off in the far clouds of the internet. In my experience, some of my favorite music did not sound appealing at first, and that truly enjoying music is part of a process. I do not wish to be a slave to relevancy and seek out new bands just to say I listened to them first. But that does not mean that my opinions cannot stand up to, or be better than those of the most relevant music critic alive I wish to not only listen to the music of my closest friends, but also to seek out music for myself to call my own. I am selfish at times and do not want others listening to my music.   But most of the time I want to be no Johnny, but Songgy Appleseed, to spread enjoyable sounds and unique musical gifts. I will write as if I am the best music critic alive, implying that in order to be the best critic alive, one must believe he is the best musician alive. Last name ever, first name greatest. I am not the greatest rapper alive and neither is/was Lil Wayne.  I don’t know if I should publish this.


on a side note:I’m listening to this song called “I do not care for the winter sun” by Beach House. GvsB loves Beach House.

"The most elegant, visceral, sensual release of the year comes from one of our favorite bands in the history of this blog. Teen Dream was born of a fully evolved vision and the indefatigable connection between Alex Scally and Victoria Legrand, whose voice is quickly becoming an iconic one. And, it has the best songs." -gvsb.

There alright I guess.

didn't even make any lists...maybe next year.

            

On Atlantic City

           The snow fell like a million tiny skydivers without parachutes. Waves were small, but clean. Oceans. The word ocean plural. Atlantic City looked like a cat puking, filled with several hundred drunken existentialists, enemies. The casinos were warm. However, they were not minimal, nor animal. The roads were left unplowed and the cars arms shoveled themselves out. A pull of a lever, a roll of the dice, a ball spinning on a wheel, basically any attempt at making money became overshadowed by the parking garage. It cost a ten and a five to park. We left our cars.
        
            Enter blinking, bleeping, and dinging. Homeless people are not robots that like techno. No, actually, homeless people are pretty cool I guess. People’s eyes were red, not glazed, something creepy. Slowly falling around the building, each snowflake was a parachute for two hydrogen and one oxygen atom. The human body is made up of a high percentage of water, and somewhere, right now the concept of beach houses is drowning. We also require oxygen to breathe. insert: The concept of beach houses. What is that thing called; that. The lapping of brilliance, stupidity caged, on ice. Six dollars for a pitcher, and you are allowed to drink straight from it. They won't kick you out. They didn't kick me out of the average life span of a human being. I believe there is only one ocean.

             This is Atlantic City! It came to me in a revelation, in an elevator, a middle aged woman telling us to be careful. No dreams. Some people say they are afraid of their dreams, but never trust statistics. Does only a fool trust facts?  Remember when people actually used pens and pencils? Not in Atlantic City, no, not there. Or maybe in Atlantic City.Everything will be alright. I’ll walk to the boardwalk; I’ll talk like a salesman, the faces overwhelming, the ocean re-affirming your love, by the water you sound like a dolphin. This is not Atlantic City. If I was a snowflake I would hope to land in the ocean.

On Music

Not any particular songs or bands, but the entire concept of music. Making it, baking it, kneading the dough, and not burning it. Have you ever watched the Food Network with a bag of Doritos glued together, forming a pine tree? Didn’t think so, didn’t even think. It is intrinsically good I guess. Seeing live music is fun, but when people with big egos, or whatever compulsions they have acquired, get drunk they like to make a mess. But not like spilling a gallon of milk, rather, like punching someone in the face or yelling “come at me bro!” Tired, so tired, of the killing, and fighting. Some people just want to have a good time, are you drunk already? Hung over the banister of the fanciest casino in the city, like Borgata or something. Yeah man I'm Donnie T. about to go swimming in my pool filled with malt liqueur. Like some kind of essay or something, but neither an essay nor something, not anything, no never anything. It is the opposite of singing, whatever that sounds like, perhaps a cross between a whisper and a scream. Are there such things as sentences for sentences sake? Worker Bee is my favorite band. ..Warpaint is my favorite band.

           

we made miis for everyone in the room. every detail changed by a signal through the air.
"what if you had a really ugly friend and you were making them? how awkward would that be?"
we laughed at the funny faces. we made a stereotypical black man. we didn't play games and the cat scratched the screen on the window so I let it in.
we gathered around a laptop to watch videos
we watched drinking out of cups because C had never seen it before
it sucks being the last person to find out
when everyone is in on the joke
we repeated words and laughed
no way, not once, not never
we learned by watching Bill Dance outtakes and laughing
we left one by one saying goodbye to each person in the room

calling all agnostics atheists, drunks, and junkies it’s Christmas eve and your families want you in church doesn’t matter if you go cause he knows what you did Santa won’t bring you coal but you’ll be cold and can’t take a shit she said

“we’ll bake her an angel cake

because she’s in heaven”

WITH TIRED EYES, TIRED MINDS, TIRED SOULS, WE SLEPT

This is my aunt’s army jacket. It’s real.
I like that it has a lot of pockets.
The other day I thought to myself, “Imagine how many people died while wearing one of these jackets.” Bullets have probably put holes in every square inch of the fabric.
I thought about soldiers freezing in the snow.
I thought about the collar protecting the back of their necks from wind.
There I was, standing on an American porch, like an idiot, smoking a cigarette.
I put my cell phone, keys, bowl, and wallet
each into a separate pocket, however they were meant for ammunition, grenades, and the essentials of war.
Unlike most outerwear, the zipper begins at my belly button and there is a snap below it, connecting the coat tails.
It is not very heavy.
There is no down stuffing or any type of padding whatsoever.
There are places this jacket has been that I will never see.

(I thought for a second “Is there anything I didn’t do?” and then thought “Yes there are plenty of things I have never done.” After returning from a break it was the one thing that was most important. But then I thought maybe small things held some significance that added up to something.)

My fingers have become enchanted with post rock[1] man, mondo great for writing, or at least the act of writing. “its like the words are yours to write” sounds cheesy, then I thought “the words I write don’t go to this music” and that was it.

In google chrome I’m on behindthename.com. Lagina is a “combination of the popular prefix La with the name Gina.” It is of the English language, African American, and rare. I wonder if the I in Lagina is pronounced ee or ii? I would speculate that it is pronounced both ways, and possibly with higher variation in many different parts of the world. Layton is another cool name for a character. It means “settlement with a leek garden” in Old English.

Oh old, old, old English, Bold English, Bad English, Sloppy English, WooWoo in your face English. You try taunting a bike cop. There are powers superheroes would kill to obtain, wired into his brain. He will say “What’s your name?” and you will be zombified by the sheer amount of auburn flowing hair-chest beard. Zombies! Video Games! Huh.

We are all Roman soldiers wearing U.S. Army Jackets. Drinking Old English and riding bicycles. Old bicycles, like, cool ones. And our hair is too long, and we only care about the present. And its all both bad and good. Bad, Good, Bad, Good, Always the same.

And not knowing which song to put on. Bad enough at a party, but completely alone. Meanwhile, acoustic guitar and the human voice create the most beautiful sound on Earth.

WITH TIRED EYES, TIRED MINDS, TIRED SOULS, WE SLEPT

There is something about songwriters, true one man bands, Dylan, Smith, Sam Beam, and Young. As well as Johnny Cash, and Keller Williams is my dawg. 

“Everyone is a fucking pro and they all got answers from trouble they’ve known and there all gonna say what you should and shouldn’t do, but they don’t have a clue” sang Smith. 

I thought “If I never illegally downloaded music as a teen, I would be retarded right now.” but then thought this idea was unfair to people who were born with any kind of politically correct health condition?

I like the song “When I’m With You” and I’m not afraid to admit it, but it kind of sucks. Best Coast fucking suck. Land of Talk has been so good right now. This Microsoft word document already looks faded, worn, and tattered. It looks like it was printed in an office in New York City in 1988. I’m currently listening to the song “May You Never” by Land of Talk; loving the vocal harmony.

 I’ve told maybe one or two people about what I thought about the army jacket the other day. One of my friends was like “You don’t even know the things I think of” and I said “What?” and he wouldn't tell me anything more. 

WITH TIRED EYES, TIRED MINDS, TIRED SOULS, WE SLEPT

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doc watson