DRUNK ROMANTICS (Another Highlight...for Chris-Alicia-Nick)

These are those moments- of self-induced teenage angst- That seem to last forever- Even after the excuses are over- and He's gone- and we're left here- with nothing to look forward to- not him, not us, never again- left here- with old moments- never forget you moments- twitching for new moments- it's all the same- I cant see how different it's gonna be- our moments...- so we stretched the truth- (shrug)-we're still hoping for the best- pretending it never happened- the latest next best thing to talk about- next to the inside out girls and stolen stereos- and why do WE need an excuse?- Cause deep down,- its right- its an all around experience- or several- and its not as dramatic as we make it seem- when were done- with our creation- we cried over it- we sweat through it- and we have the marks to prove it- our sweat made it beautiful- crying over it made it hot- we've created poetry- painted it romantic- with black eyeshadow- and push up bras- tampered with our reputation, the one no one respected anyway,- and anyway...- we dont give a damn- we did it- its over- everyone's leaving- didnt think about the good time chances we might have butchered- for the sake of a good high- a fake high- we wernt even on anything- as far as each other knew... and still... her and I- we're left here- stuck thinking about that future moment- the moment when its actually over- and everyone goes home- in a ball field, talking about our boys- and the good ol' days- on a curb, kicking empty beer cans- gnawing on swells that will never heal- lying on the street lit bugs and concrete- drunks stepping past us- with the smell of our future- like they're seen this all already- you can see they're smugness- all the way through their rolled back eyes- because they know- they went through the same thing- and still offer us no counseling- thinking we should suffer just as much as they did- and we're already suffering-more than you know- alone- no excuses- self-proclaimed poets- drunk romantics

WAKING UP

I fell asleep about 3 years ago- and after 8 months of rebound and reabilitation- I figured it would be worth it to give it all up- I got high on the determination to get myself to my feet and on a higher level- I slept the last 3 days and boredom off- to the point where I couldnt remember what I dreamt- I couldnt remember why I was still here- or what went wrong- it's 2am again- the same as back around the clock once- I'm back to thinking it never changes- and the cycle wont stop- itching and twitching- everythings asleep but me- its been 3 years...- and I miss the times when the drugs were good for me- and my self induced depression was something to look forward to- I focused all my attention on prentending I couldnt help it- and I was right- and now that I've realized this- Its turning to something real- and Im waking up- and just like before- I dont think I can handle it-----

the red wall.

Cant sleep.- Cant eat.- No joke. -I sunk in without knowing it.- and its only midwinter- midnight- and delerious in thought- Im feeling everything- vibrations- and everything I am- all molded together- with my dried flowers- and my guitar I've played so loud lately- and I'm damn happy about it.- Knowing that I know whos pulling a trick on me, and why- and Im okay with it-Because I've tried other ways of thinking- and all thats left to do is go with the flow- and show the real me through a series of un-shy moments, un-caring moments, look-like-shit moments.- But its okay- Because I've recorded lately- In my half awake war- Im well aware, its the worst thing I've ever written- But thats alright- Its something to look back on- When Im back to routine, and I cant recall what it feels like to lay there until I realize- I cant stop moving- and I act out instead- alone, in my room- I cant sleep- and it feels so damn good.

where the paradise plays in:

I've felt this before, like echoing on hardwood floors. What I'm thinking past is nothing like the visual I get from this feeling, from this smell, but still,- I'd say its the dusty hard wood floors, and the white wash walls, that give me that same feeling everyone gets from something new. Something that reminds you of frosted dirt, so different from you it makes you smile a burning smile. It's the way I felt and saw and smelled, when I walked into our new house 4 years ago. At the time I had been down about the pettiest of things, nothing to bad had happened to me, that i could remember, it was just normal teenage angst, and it was the worst I'd ever had it. I got out of the car and the empty October air hit me immediatly. I held my mittens in my hand but didnt put them on, I liked the way my hands looked with the new background. I felt a lump in my throat and decided to just let it out. Like maybe if she saw my tears, she'd know how they burned, and she'd remember what it felt like,- to hate, and to hurt so bad for what you dont actually want and what you miss,- like maybe we could turn back now, and I could go back to slow moving maturity, and the latest things to think about like reputation, and boyfriends, and wondering why the first girl who kissed me hated me so much. I was so sad and angry with the situation I was in before we came here, all I knew was I was screwed up and wanted out. But as we walked through the leafs and frost to our new front door, I wanted so badly to turn back. I didnt know this place and I didnt like it, I closed my eyes and felt myself fall, I wanted to get past the ignorance, I wanted to get past feeling this way, and the ingnorance to what I felt and how the hell I was sapose to help myself. It was all I knew, and changing my scene I knew would change me, and I didnt want to take the chance of this change being for the worst...... MORE------------>

ALRIGHT so it actually goes like this:

THE BLUE GARDEN LANGAUGE Chorus #1: Wont you help me? Live the Jack and Maggie dream? Where I welcome you to the new day, with a simple kiss one that matters one that can mold into vapor all the way through your ignorant,- no more, less.... inexperienced temple So close to your ear- I'll scream to love you while your beautiful blue eyes are growing inside me and I could paint our chairs red and our mattress will rest on the floor for what it matters- I could write for you pages with sonets mixed in and we would no less than blend you Are the fire and Im the brick that contains you we'll become the envy of our railroad town every night they'll watch our shadows fall into each other and wonder... and no one can push me out of your mind even with our dirty gutters or cotton on the clothes line- Because it has to be real somewhere, you can be that for me and I can write the script for one of those perfect fantasys one we'll never have to snap out of CHORUS #2: When I dream of Blu, I think Mexico City and dug out cribs. Where there's a picture on the wall of a red chair, its something to hope for. -Or later in the desert where filterless smoke never leaves the crooked shaped windows. And her saint comes in black, white, and a bow tie tied like cloves. And here, her hair is orange with fantastic curls and melon, and rum is good for us, and she plays the piano, for her miscarried sister, who we carried through Mexico City to Casalblanca. -We named her Jezebel, for the fairies we believed in, and her stolen dress she never got to wear... and love, I didnt realize, fairies cant hold their liqour. CHORUS #3: Last morning I tried to teach myself to write about something surreal and me, but with Kerouac style, without the "woo-hee-haws" and italian dialect in parenthises. No love, Im not mocking you, you know your my universal jealousy. I thought,-I should write about anything I want, and hope the blue garden language will just come to me. I could write about something I know, like thoughtless makes serene, but what do I know? And Jack certainly isnt going to revise my thoughts for me. So I thought: I consider myself an insubordinate and my ex a true infidel, how do I show I'm angry? but what else should matter but instant thought. And when rain on tin or newborn clouds inspire, what should I do with it? Through this I feel so institanious, so worthless, I feel so ignorant to everything I hoped for. I hoped for a novel. And an ailment to tell something through. Relay my stories in a delerious manner. Make people wonder if my stories are true. As they feed me my soup, they'll ask me why I shaved my head and eyebrows, and I'll reply, "well love, I was only trying to prove a point."

alright then, paradise...

I dreamt my life in terms of science~ last night i threw a cigerette into the black/blue and you caught it 25 miles away~ Im grinning like a maniac into hair and rain as you bring your arm back down and strike a match~ we're talking through seemingly occupied space.~ seemingly... right?~ wrong.~ this is one of those hard to percieve angles, where you are bigger and more dimentional then your surroundings.~ That perfectly deceptive angle, ~ I pose to one side, like so, ~and you do then same,- ~ when we do this, everything else is flexible. ~The stars will spin in circles and the trees will go flat. ~You could be in China and that cigerette would still make it to your mouth, ~because when you and I move, the earth stays right there. ~Gravity doesnt know we're meaning to let it win the race. ~We like it fast. ~We like sitting on that bench and having the world mold for us.

!VOLUME!

1.) Isnt it strange? These people's addictions-they knaw their cuticles, til they're out of the heat- and into the fire-of flying hair, and sweat, and smoke, -and all other empowerments that are forbidden everywhere else. but here, where for three hours straight, I get hit with all my emotions,- all in one standing- while we're all jumping. Synchronized. UN-organized... 2.) And isnt it beautiful? Empty viens, lights and stoned eyes- glancing into everthing else but me: the one who actually stopped to think about it. Because to me, its a privilege: this high, where we dont have to be on anything- to remember this fire.-Because its all in our heads-and all around us-where we create our happiness- carrying in nothing but ourselves- I came for something I could call better than the last time- I swore it was the time of my life....-This pure, raw, volume---- 3.) Again, I convince myself Im happy- because Im living up to this energy-waiting-for my chance to satisfy myself-with bodies and 30 foot speakers- Just for a while- Until Im back to just talking about it- and planning my next fix.- 4.) ....Becoming what everyone else thinks of me- free- but honestly, Im owned by this- experiences: of cheap motel rooms, and inexpensive nights on the town- paying to love myself- and to be loved- So I'll sit... on the corner of the bed.- and maintain- because... its all there's left to do....

This is my moment-when my long awaited epiphany finally completed itself- and I learned how to live life from an hour with a hippy who sold avon- life is life- and love is pure- whichever way it swings- thoughts can be meaningless-so I dont need to think anymore- secrets should remain just secrets- and I still remain less hopeful-and we should keep more nuetral------ trashing my moment-hoping for a quick lay-an overcolored skip in my benevolent life-to make it seem romantic again- before Im back to sanity- back to loving for the sake of living- loving something I hoped to come in a different form-I hoped to be ignorant again-hope to never want again-now Im left subjacent in my own uncertainty-

hmm yes.. the rest of that one thing... you know...

I get crazy in love with the beats. The real maggie, the Cassidys, Ginsberg, and Jack. It brings back memories that arnt even really mine ... hmm... you people are so damned beautiful. and to think that your not! the brilliance of it! to have writen poetry in India for 2 years... 'til our summer.- to know all the foul language and exadurate each sylabol like a mad rapper thinking slowely about politics, to a beat, to be fed up with politics. to know everything about Buddism and lithium, fields, and not care to much for it.- to have a herb garden in your back yard,- to have the biggest variety of thought to yourself and thats all that matters.- -Because as fucked up as this world gets outside the deep leafed jungles, between us and Mexico City,- there's still beautiful burnt eyed gypsy child. theres still shoe gazers to be reminded of us when they finally look up. Theres still cool-red-clay villas waiting for us at the end of this chipped road. Clean clothes, rollies, and new culture are waiting. It's what we headed out for. but for you,- to appriciate the trip there, down to the sweat and mosqitoes, makes you the poet. and I the people reader, thinking- gazing at this cultures new birkenstocks... and I'm loving Gregory Corso like I knew the kid.. yelling your tribunes into microphones filled with smoke... and echoing through the joint is Visions of Cody and "...bop began with jazz..." I'm filled with that knot...

Everything I dont want to be- common place. like you. a common place word. your a bitch. the only thing to appriciate... I cant give up on something that I've trusted for years when you put it on the line- and when you asked me... I was sick. or more told- like it's not right by you for me to be happy. What else do I need from you? I've sold my luxury up and down this mountain. and you've always been the highest price to pay. I dreamt the most beautiful poetry... now I forget to write it down- when I see you sell yourself, and tag your work priceless- as if everyone else sees it as godliness. your ideas are shot. and well... like I said, it makes me sick. your fabrications... how gorgeous you think you are, is all you have to tell. I guess I'm just not good enough- for your luxury. and Im the last person who has the right to say something. Im the last person you would let change you, seeing as how we're closest... you dont have to listen...? I tip toe around you everyday, and theres so much I dont tell you. Because your so easily set off. Because you think you know me... and you think I let you close enough to dictate my life. you think my loves care for you as much as you think its hip to know them. You know I want to care. Hell, everyone wants to care. and you think that gives you reason to be who you are. your simply not happy enough about life.. and thats a lot to say from me. I've always been down... and out... what the hell do you really think your here for?

this summer was an eye closer, really, I couldnt stand to look at it. I've never been so pale. This summer, was where him and I made a promise, we decided to start clean. He promised none of all that and I promised to try to not be so crazy. and he kept telling me I should probably not second guess him; he had alot over my head. Even when he wasnt as clean as he said. Even when we broke the promise. I had so many plans and slept through all of them. I dont remember any sunshine. most of my summer was spent giving a shit about math, and avoiding friends for the sake of responsibility and sanity,- a catch-22. Short of a headache I didnt accomplish much of anything. I missed an entire summer and feel like I can never be sane again. I felt trapped and manipulated and hurt and weak and hungry and beaten and unloved, but I was to tired to think about how I could escape. I fell in and out of love with him three or more times. it made sense, i promise, but god, what kind of sense is that? So its almost fall and Im hoping maybe things wont seem quite so harsh. And hoping I can get something done... find my friendship tick... Im hoping to all that I dont sleep through it.