2004-04-03 - 12:42 a.m.
you don't deserve to know..
i don't have to correct myself.. i will let the unediting begin..
it's friday night..the loser definer night.. just typing and writing to define what it means to be a "loser".. because initially i used to think that being alone, w/o a hot girl meant you were a loser..but now i realize that being alone w/o a hot girl means that you're a loser.. because there's nothing quite like the smell, taste, and touch of a hot girl that let's you know exactly just how much you've won from the pursuit of life-- the metaphorically challenged harvard grad pinnacle of explanations. life.
i have many things to say and not many people to say them to.
i have been saying things in my head as of late .. they don't really translate onto paper
because.. well here we go.. because explanations benefit the explainer unless the explainer explains the answer, in which case the explainer puts his head on a platter for the taking..
answers don't serve to justify .. or to please.. they serve to remove and render the unanswerable, untouchable.. to put away that which touches.. he who incites, instigates nerve endings to rise up and rebel against the common prayers that surround them and make them non-negotiable to foreign lords pressing desire against desire like competing hands meeting in prayer ..
sometimes i need love.. but i get by...
sometimes i need to get by .. but i get stuck in traffic on my way to the ocean.. the very edge of the ground that stays under my feet all day long... until i voluntarily lift my feet off it and close my eyes.. and plunge headlong into the thought, the enticement of rest.. and wake from her revoked kindness.. and the things her midnight hours whisper playfully in my ears.. her..and quiet..
departed
and awakened.. and here i am again.. on my two legs.. waiting for the waves to crash like pedestrians running full speed at their destinations.. washing themselves away like a giant nomad whose home feels and smells like new leather.. and flies away from airport terminals.. with bags and miles in hand .. jobs for brother and sister.. coffee and comfort, and the warmth of a human souvenir called father.. and a mother in the ground.. whose solitary, infertile life.. brings a soft-petalled inarticulate sprinkle of yellow daffodils to the earth..
for my footsteps.. for my last wry steps
