Ok, i haven't done this in a while, so it is likely folly, but i am a little drunk, so fuck it.

one at a time
swift and rustled
right by me

i would hold them
(hearts beating too fast to count)

there's something about beingalive
that scares the shit out of me

one at a time
right by me


-----

ok, i will reiterate once more. i hate fucking poetry. unless you are plath, bukowski, cummings, shakespeare, or someone i want to fuck, shut the hell up. my poetry is [across the board] terrible. really dispicable. like someone should nail it up to a cement wall and shoot it until there is nothing but pock marks and little shreds of paper hanging from nails. that would have infinitely more meaning than my pretentious prattle. ish.

it was a bad idea.

where's my wrench?

all right, so technically i missed a post. i mean, it's true, i missed a post by around 20 minutes.

trying to calculize, and it is hard. really hard. tomorrow morning i am going to get back at it, as i don't have class. i think i will pass, but i also thing i will *barely* pass.

---

today my girl asked to see my bullet wounds. i only have two, but it looks like three. in the upper part of my left arm is a scar that looks like a bullet, but it was just a screwdriver some motherfucker tried to put through my neck and missed. yeah, i don't miss dad either.

she touched the scars like they were special or delicate, but truth is, they are numb. i can't feel anything, well sometimes there is a funny-bone nerve twich, like some flesh is out of place, but it isn't a normal feeling. it is a broken feeling.

i bear it, and though it makes me feel proud, i more wish she would find my dick and get it over with. i ain't proud of them, and i fuck to forget.

i know that i need to write every day if this thing is going to work. why is that so goddamn hard? finding the time? no. finding words? i seem to do that fine. maybe it's that i don't think i am very interesting. maybe.

calculus is amazing. it is a really elegant system. i really enjoy how it works, unfortunately, i don't remember the rudimentary stuff. i don't remember the algebra of exponents or the trig identities. shit, i don't even remember what inverse tangent is.

that doesn't mean it isn't awesome. it is. truely.

i am not into being in a relationship right now and i don't know how to deal with it. i mean, we live in the same house and everything, we share so much... this is why fear of commitment can be valid. i'm just too in the moment, i guess. fucking sucks.

"I love you."

that's what she said. i don't really know what love is, though. i love my girlfriend, i guess. i mean, i don't want bad things to happen to her, i care about her well being. if i were shakespeare, i could say 'i bear her my love' and i wouldn't be lying. it still doesn't mean that i know what love is though.

there's a girl who i know. if she showed up on my doorstep and said, come with me, i would. if she called me and said, i need money. i need a car. i need. i would do it. maybe that's love, but if so, why am i not with her? how can i stand it?

when i saw her last we each had our others with us. i sort of chuckled at her boy, he was tall and pretty and talked a bunch. he wasn't as smart as me, but he was nice. he made a fine bedwarmer, he would do, but he wasn't me. and i saw her smile aside as she met mine. pretty enough, certainly nice. not as smart or with the same joi de vivre, but fine. comfy. but not her.

we didn't make a fuss. we knew that we did as we did because it was easier. perhaps it wouldn't even work anyway, and sadness sucks. for lots of reasons, we glance, smile, and move on.

"I love you"
"like for reals?"
"yep"
"hm. thanks!"
"someday you'll realize that you love me back"
"then what?"
"we'll fuck"

i was nonchalant, but i'll never forget that little exchange. no, fucking isn't love, but it's what lovers do. and in that moment images flashed through my mind, backseats and bathrooms and morning breath and sweat. making coffee in the morning. exploring the long languid terrain of her skin.

i don't think it would work, honestly, i'm not pretty enough. i am a hairy spaniard of gypsy stock. i like to drink, though it makes me impotent. i like to think i am uninhibited in bed, and i'm sure that people who haven't slept with me think that i am uninhibited. but if you give me the reigns, i am as like to just put you on top and enjoy the ride.

trust is a two edged sword. on one hand, i trust too much. on the other, never enough.

there's a girl i know who doesn't know how to trust. she lives in fear, really, but she doesn't think so. i don't think she's ever really touched someone.

on the tops of mountains dwell birds that trust the wind more than i can trust myself. the right music and i melt. the wrong word and i turn to wood. maybe you are a great person, but i am a terrible judge of people. i don't understand greed. it doesn't make sense to me. i will fail at business.

somewhere there is solace. a place where livid red passion doesn't have to apologize. a place where people only make walls to paint on. meet me there, on the bridge, whoever you are. meet me over the river, at dawn, when the peaches are ripe on branches and dragonflies crowd the air. i won't be late.

legs feel great. head feels great. i feel great.

i feasted on the sunrise this morning, straining with wintered legs up the rocky slope. an eruption of wildflowers competing with the sun for attention. the wind was just cool enough.

the taxman wants money. the girl wants attention. the cat wants food. the dick wants sex. the school wants papers and ink. and for about a half an hour, i didn't care. i am going again tomorrow. i think this is the start of something.

i fucking hope it is. the me wants more.

once upon a time there was a man who built a house of clay. he didn't want to cry, for fear it would wash his home away. he changed his name to suit the day, he claimed that nothing would hurt him. he washed his hands with sand. he walked from place to place, not to fast to sweat. he slept on stones and brushed his teeth with alcohol. he met a lady who laughed and prayed. he invited her into his house, such was his lonliness. it was rash, as she made him spit and weep and sweat. eventually he forgot himself in his revels, and though he knew better (the roof sagged, the walls bulged), he invited her in again and again. when he arrived with her, finally, the door had drooped so low, he couldn't fit. he decided that she was better, and left his home a tomb to dry in the sun, and never returned.

big drops that you would have thought were hail rained down, slapping the metal roof. at work i still feel wrong. something isn't working. and it's not just me.

on the radio there was something about the fast food movie. something about not having a connection with what you eat. something about nourishment.

nour·ish·ment (nûrsh-mnt, nr-)
n.

Something that nourishes; food.

i have forgotten that all of my parts need nourishment. dick, brain, soul, stomach. not just things to stuff places, but things to nourish.

nour·ish (nûrsh, nr-)
v. nour·ished, nour·ish·ing, nour·ish·es

To provide with food or other substances necessary for sustaining life and growth.

the rain outside nourishes my soul, the sounds it makes. when the lightening splits the air and the rain wakes the ground.

wipe wipe.

one time there were two thoughts that three wishes could not make whole. it will take five trials, the four witches told me. Six miles away, i slew seven giants with eight magic arrows. Nine years later, i buried ten children in the desert, beaten by eleven years of disease and sun. twelve stars could be seen over thirteenth avenue. fourteen pigeons gathered around fifteen scattered grains. sixteen cars passed by. seventeen minutes fall away.

my soul needs nourishment.