How was your trip?

"So how did your trip go? Holidays and such?"

"well, Im all out of morphine now, wasted my last shot after the 8 hour drive out of Ohiopyle, beautiful place by the way"

"Morphine? Surely you are being abstract? Please explain in further detail."

"No abstractions, I havnt been that creative this trip, just in aw of natural beauty. I love the east coast ascetics. But when we first drove the 22 straight hours to MA, I fooled my body, it gave up on trying to sleep. I went to many days with out any sleep, then suddenly fell to the ground, unable to move and puking. Hospital gave me to types of medication (after a day of keeping me on a drip to put me to sleep) the first gave me hives and no sleep came of it, the second was shots of morphine. I had to learn to become a junkie, to fool my body to sleep."

"This all sounds awful"

"It was"

"So it was a horrible vacation?"

"No it was great. This could have happened when ever. I was glad to see the sea. To breath fresh pine air and drive by many of pounds. I am content with my conviction that I am only but a beast, roaming the earth. But this beast is enchanted by beauty like any other. If I love places, or sceneries, they will not hurt me in return. They will not inform me of how I let them down, grow bored and weary of my existence in its light, or cause me any self loathing at all."

"Well this conversation has mad me uncomfortable. I see some of what you really are, underneath, not the shell you expose in passing by. Its raw and ugly and I would rather have no part in it. You call your self a beast, I will politely say nothing but nod as to not lie. Good day, I will avoid your eye contact in further passing byes."

"Ok, I will still enjoy who you are. I enjoy most people. But I will take your dismissing air as a lash against my pummeled image, only exaggerating my beastliness."

"Yeah, ok."

MIA in MA

Friday, I awoke at 1130am. Drove from Chicago to plymouth. No sleep. Plymouth, saturday at 3pm. Showed Alex my old life, old friends and lobster. Brought Alex to boston. Sunday, writing this blog, leaving out an encretible amount of stories, 3pm, still no sleep.


Why michael?
I dont know. It almost seems like I cant sleep. Im out of it though. I dont dare look in the mirror, im keeping comunications with people brief, and im staying away from poetic justices. Except the beach. I went there and laid in the cold sand for about an hour. Looked around and tried being apart of something beautiful.


But there i go again. Scratch your head and sit near the wall. I need to be stationary. Im leaveing this ramble, but continuing the post.


It was weird showing Alex my old friends. I was parinoid about worlds gravity and colisions. It was fine.
The drive was interesting. Lots of giggling at the tired end.
The east coast is beautiful, just breath taking. Maybe thats why I left, i didnt belong.
I always want to bring people back to show them. Savannah never would but I think she would have lots of fun. I invited Anastasia but that was just a gesture. Id love for her to be here, but knew in asking that she wouldnt come.
I dont miss the midwest. Just a few people out there.
Im moving into a sucluded cabin in the woods near a beach. No one will miss me and i will feel lost and away from my self. It works out.

Shes not that one, he is

I had a little poem. But it got away from me. I would try and get away from me too.


Driving home this friday. Jackie, Alex and I all in my Saab. That will be fun. Ill escape chicago then after a week escape plymouth.

I have new things going on in chicago. Things seem fun. but thats scary. Fun and happy will leave. And that hurts. I would ask people to not hurt me ( i always want to say that "Hey, just dont hurt me, I know you dont want to, but you prob will, so just dont") But then I would be being unfair, because mainly its myfault they hurt me, or i just hurt me.


eck. blah blah. Give up. Right.

Working tonight

Drowning in a shallow, disinfecting, distilled puddle.
Short shoots down my throat, burning my esophagus, curupting my blood.
Cant stand, wont sit, its time for me to not really give a shit.
Its going to be a whisky night.

(I wrote a country song, ha)

Never to be - But it was once

I want to write so much when I am at work. It gets really frustrating because I get on a creative roll but am always to busy to even write down my thoughts quick enough to go back and salvage what I can from my better ideas.

So many good ideas wasting away like a baby being birthed off a Balcony. You only get a glimpse of its beauty before it gracefully dwindles down. Its weight only being enough to snap the cord and dirty the pavement.

Running down the stairs

"You cant stop me"

"I wasn't going to. I want you to, so bad, I want you to"

"How can I not tremble with such words? Why am I always left at this point, unable to do it but always trying to?"

"Because you say what you want to say, you act how you want to act, but you are not who you want to be"

"The transcendentalist where wrong"

"Everyone was wrong. That includes you"

"Well if i am wrong, then I don't have to, you know..."

"You may be wrong, but inaccuracies swell up around your pupils. Its a blinding image of nothing else. A disaster feeling of who could care. An encompassing map with no direction."

"Shaking, shaking! Why does it leave me shaking?"

"Why don't you stop with the questions. Your not talking to me. Your talking to it, humoring it. Give in and bash your face against its ribs. Feel its heart beat its tenacious blood threw your skull. Where are you going?"

"..."

"You wont be back. Bye. I cant be if your not. I hope your gone for good."

Ive run out

Its progressive, this degradation of the mind. Its progressed so much that I am no longer a man. I am the teen I was, used to be, well am again. Highs and lows like waves. My ship wont sing, just takes on more and more water. Making each up and down seem that much more heavier, and demented.

I sing when I'm up. Broken words of miscommunications. Distressed can be "undressed" Sexy and and bare, sculpted from indestructible existence.

I dig when I'm down. Shoveling dirt up into the air. It descends on my back as I hoarse my voice screaming into the cold dark hole below my feet.

If I was, not up, and no where near down, where am I? That would be like placing me in a house I have never been, in a town so unfamiliar, asking, "where are you?" You cant know North and West, when East and South are still a mystery. Misery. Its all miscommunication. The words are interpreted wrong, but the mutation leaves something valid.

So if you say, "Those emotions are not what you are really feeling" Your wrong. They are not what I should be feeling, but I am, so they are.

From the top of the wave I can see the sand bare at the bottom. The waves encompass all the water. That lows going to hurt and this high has made me dizzy.

I feel bad. Im sorry. Its all bad. Its not sorry. They can be bad. They're not always bad. Cant sing or scream. "I've lost my voice threw all this noise"

The problem with adverbs.

My body shakes from the cold.
It is distracting and unpleasing.
Hoist up those pants and keep walking.
Clutch to your own parable body, letting out secrets of lies and shames.
A stampede of abandoned streets charge behind me.
They are not kind, but familiar.
Like your milk man, a father.
A face that harms and comforts.
Only half that face is past down.
Harm.
I harm with my frost bitten face.
Winter streets, I am a killer.