Fatalist palmistry

I cannot hear you over the loud music
but I know what you are saying -
"Let's go home."
It makes a lot of sense; this frat is
disgusting, there is a stripper pole
and the girls we came with are
grinding relentlessly with
bro-dudes.

We discuss whether to
go to another party,
maybe it'll be better.
But we both know frat parties
are no place for intellectuals
like us, and we don't know
anyone with an apartment yet.

So what a wonderful surprise it is
to find a bottle of Jameson
from a cocktail party nights earlier,
sitting half-full
or, you dryly put it,
"already half-empty"
in the refrigerator.

Cut to us three shots deep,
singing Say It Ain't So
clinking glasses,
discussing David Lynch,
WHY?, Evelyn Waugh, and
girls that we know and are
tentatively still in love
with.

You spill whiskey on your cardigan
and there's a tense silence while you
examine it, 'til you
wipe it off and pour another drink,
because you only have to
walk across the street to go home and there's no rush.

The others are back;
and you should go anyway;
you've got to study
Spanish. Algo que un día había, también
podia repetirse!

A friendship like nepenthe,
dude. One day
we will get
to forage for more. To form
new marble from old limestone
with acid and rain
and you will still loom
big, sir.

Little Italy on February 5, 2011

We went up Montgomery

And left on Columbus

To see the light posts painted

Red and green. We decided to have

Some cannolis from Stella’s and buy

A book from City Lights.

I wonder how much a calzone is?

Too much you answer.

The signs on the stores read,

Giordano’s, Café Trieste, Gelato Naia

And the bus rolling by says,

When the moon hits the sky

Like a big pizza pie that’s

Amore. And weary Italians

With hats and sunglasses drink

Coffee and watch people with

Cameras pay $15 for a calzone.

I’ll be back, in some Italian daze

Like out of a Fellini film wanting

A $15 calzone and an aranciata.

IMG got clearer

. turn me
On. push
my buttons. feel
me pulse. the IMG got
clearer

look at me. I am
sleek like her but
far more practical.
take you
without
wheels or legs

look at me because I am
fLaShInG
you are a dull moth.

you can't leave me
i have seen you.
i've seen you grin
the face of murder. i have seen
your eyes
desperately wet and I only showed you
because
you asked

you can't turn me Off ~
what could be more
than the sizzling
of your neural bzzzts with
my wavy crzzzs
and the buzzing that tingles
between us

indistinct NPCs
distract you,
i know them,
i've seen them yell at and misinterpret
you but I know your
~signals~ and
i'll be whirring
around
anytime you want me

At Work Listening to 98.1 Kiss Fm

‘I can’t wait (I can’t wait) ‘till you call me on the telephone
I can’t wait till my love walked through the door’
Win tickets to the Valentines Bash by listening in during lunch on Kiss FM.

If the purchase is over $5,000,
Keep it,
If it’s a computer purchase,
Keep it,
But just to make sure, don’t keep the purchase summary okay?

‘Coast to coast, LA to Chicago, western male
Across the north and south, to Key Largo, love for sale.’
It’s the biggest party on the radio, ‘stayin alive, stayin alive,’
You’re listening to Kiss Fm.

I stare at purchase number 50987-13474
A Compaq printer was bought on 3/4/2001
I go through stacks of paper with ease and
Carelessness, telling myself,
“If only I was a curator at the MOMA!”
But for now, listening to Kiss Fm, the bay’s old school.

Feels stereo

Withered stockings line the cupboards and corridors of
one K.K. Man-child.
They are woven into torn old
harmonies that flit and flutter among
wooden, mid-eastern shelves of
melody.

A room or two over
grassy feelings spread like plastic wrap on the couch
are metal grates for euphemistic
release.
A wind full of playgrounds and early morning
dews kisses the room,
leaving behind a trace of her
incense scent.

Inspiration bursts like
blackberries and accords to the time
a particular significance.
But time is a hesitant
supervisor for the lone poet sewing
threads, and I
dream again and again of
spaces between the
fabric.

Right now I am listening to Feels
and the light piano plinks make me
think of young fervid days
and the pulsing beat swings me around
a great blinking sphere.

It's rising up now and sounding like India,
like tender coriander on spicy Rajma Chawal and
I can't tell the difference
between rustic nostalgia, hazy memory
and soon-to-be-old age.

It feels
like cold window on bare cheek.
It feels like a brisk rainy day when
you play with the ticket in your pocket.
It feels like living in
new times or old times.
I feel like screaming in the backyards
of youthful courage.

It feels like
the few minutes after 3 o'clock
when you get out of
elementary school and you
don't really have anything to do
yet.

In Tangiers

Woolen sweaters, ticklish and warm, are
clinging to your chest
like covetousness.
Covert lines of sinuous filmy
memory wriggle through your fingers
because nothing is
the same.

O, try as you might, you are
caught up in space, dispossession and
acidic disposition.
Strong and deep is the burden
and the gift
and residual figures of
womanly curvature reside in
minutes and seconds, because
"music is art in time."

Your rusted ligaments still pound
furiously and they are the method
to a literary gladness,
voices shake and whisper in syncopation
as your feature comes to a close.

And what ribbons! What bows we've carved
out of the arms of beginners and enders and what
arrows with which to
melt her heart
and glide with a sigh into her
limpid limbic
nodes.

There are scars
and there are stars,
there's the sea
and there's Tangiers somewhere.
There's Berkeley somewhere else
and there's a place for
you
and I
to speak with knowledge
about the writing of songs.

And we are in a room and
lightly sipping so we can still drive home
and highly anticipating the next few years
with our ribald language while
hoping we don't go bald.

It seems so goddamn far away,
and it seems so hellbent on eluding us,
for the moment we can just talk about it.

But I know that when I am happy, I am with you
and I am fitfully fighting fisticuffs from
every single direction
and you are wrestling the inspiration out
of dutiful life.

Things You Told Me On November 25, 2010

You haven’t found someone that fits yet.
It’s because you aren’t fun.
In the traditional sense,
Stable isn't fun.
And girls in college can't see past that.
But that’s not a problem at all,
Girls will see it eventually.
You're the guy girls get married to.
You were a good guy too early.

National Parks (November 11, 2010)

It’s not a national park, its regional
And we continue to climb a hill and a
Stick pokes me in my leg, enough to break the skin.
Blue Moon’s on the top of the second hill we climb,
Ya’ll want a hug, some lady will ask us.
Heading back, in the darkness, the cars passing
Us, lighting the way. Wait up, car!
And we huddle on the side of the road and hope
To god this isn’t another speeding BMW.
Wait, hold up the light, I think we’re supposed to
Go down that way. Once we find the bus stop and the
Bus driver tells us, you guys should’ve taken that route
And points to the other side of the road.
I watch you take a nap on the bus ride back.

August 19, 2010

I said, “You don’t have to go”
But my bed misses me, she says
“Your bed is new; it hardly knows you”
(And I hardly do too when I say this)
But at least I want to.
She closes her eyes and lays there
I stare at her eyelids
She says she has to go again
And I make up reasons why she shouldn’t
Her hair is in her face and
My arm is underneath me and
I have to budge to get it free and
I’m able to, awkwardly
She gets up again and I wrap my
Arms around her waist and my head
Is listening to her stomach
And I’m so bad
And you keep telling me you should go
And I know you should
Because I can hear the butterflies in your stomach
Slowly coming to a stop

Mad noise

When I received your number,
my insides lit.
I felt the simmering of novel romance in the pit of my stomach,
and spoke, with
a shimmering fever tongue,
dribbled words, viscous like oozing pus.
Opaque thoughts spread
like instantaneous webbing
and collected in the vague distant corners of
mind's rusty attic.

The night filled up with dense
reincarnations of you, and your heady brethren
and the silver border that runs around
your sinuous lines,
that I can't quite define
with my eyes.

And I saw you,
draped;
soft and velvety curtains fluid over
liquid liquor languor.
Your breast bowing and dipping
with the intake of watery breath,
and your livery
strewn around, mixing with my
material messes.

And I collided you with ribbons of
my life, each a different color.
Green and violet and yellow were my friends,
my responsibilities, and the pavement of
sunstroked nostalgia.
But the one I wanted to wrap around your
selfish skin and the freckles I couldn't sit counting
was red,
and it was my favourite one, rising
and falling with that imaginary chest.

That was my vision,
and that's how it would have worked for me,
a rhythm and a blues,
harmony supplied with mischievous syncopation. But
maybe it's different with a paint brush in your hand
or a magnifying glass in your pocket.

Artistically or high-mindedly,
obsess yourself with taking subtlety to
a new level,
run it off a cliff in a paper cart and
leave it
hanging there
like a disco ball.
My humiliation and frustration will spill out from it
like tremulous beams of light
and they'll melt your wings and I will snigger and weep
in the cold darkness of a
low-lit fluorescent night.

Dog sees goD

Is it part of my being to be cruel?
Is there a black mark on my permanent record
to proclaim that I'm ruthless?
The fact is that I'm Amanda-less,
and Naomi-less,
and Zoey-less,
but not less for it,
lest I cast the wrong spell here,
and assert acrimonious aspersions.

Inspiration arrives suddenly, like an old
friend you've just been dying to see. But
just as fast, she realizes that she misses her house
and her bed, and
her boyfriend, and that
you were never really that great at it anyway.

Maybe it isn't that bad to be cruel,
when cruelty tends to the frightened inner animal,
like a dog fighting its way up the ranks.

Today, I'm not Olivia-less,
but will my self be one day less full of Olivia?
Those little bits of light that saturate my pores,
the flecks of pink that shiver wildly against ochre skin,
or the strands that swirl around my straightest
lines and coax them to curl?

When one day I am lying in a
hospital bed,
clutching my heart in terror and
my hands to the sheets --
when I am famous
for curious, one-off turns of phrase,
blinking less and less,
will I look back?

Will I be paralyzed by the decisions of the
Olivia-full, and hate myself for being young?
Will the stuff of 19-year old me
litter my body like some unwelcome fast food;
like beer bottles;
like pizza boxes; will my age be prostate to a scale?

The dirt of unknowing and the watery
mess of memory -- they'll coagulate into a muddy
quagmire into which dreams sink.
Maybe, they'll have said, this just wasn't the place to build a foundation.

But I feel every day as heavily as the last --
every moment is just as important as the last,
there's happiness in crisis,
and so maybe my life is more like a sandcastle
strengthened by caulkish nostalgia.

You can't prevent waves of
uncertainty from
crashing
with violence
upon the constructions of the mind.
But the capacity for destruction
goes palm
in sweaty palm
with a penchant to
create.

Is it part of my being to be cruel?

Song craft

Peacebone,
you fat, diabolical rodent;
sometimes I hate you.
But your little orange cage is
all you know,
and I feel for you.

There are times
during the day when I wish
for a big, bulbous
hand to come into my room and
show me
the panorama world.

Your predicament reminds me of everything
I did today:
I was singing,
eating succulent fruit,
sucking on the sun,
swinging my frowns
up and down a steep hill
and
sluicing the sap from
effortless trees. 

Today,
life seemed too large for us to inhabit frivolously,
so we extricated ourselves from the apartment,
and dislocated ourselves from the barres of Flatland city,
we sank into the sky, bailing out of
song craft and eating mountains,
dried grass plateaus
above which Paul found a log-swing held up by
branches.
And the jam is preserved by
our short-lived
respite into collectivity.

Can you hear me?
Sundown is swamped in cloudy
misshape, and I am you for a little while,
held up in some gigantic hand, excited
by the prospect that this is
still-life. That this episode featured me
and that the sense of space
in this one is so exemplary.

Disconnected - still connected -
the whole terrarium lights up.
This isn't grisly, man, it's
not simple man vs, this is
man, via satellite.

Anna Bradley - Pavo

(artwork courtesy Craig J. Heed of Slothbear)

out on iTunes now!

i am always happy

i wrote this at the end of senior year, so... it's not really what i'm writing now, but i think it's still pertinent.

i am always happy.

i always tell myself that because it is true. one day, i sat down and talked to myself i said self:

"shut the fuck up. you have

NOTHING

to worry about, really

nothing."

and that was that.

when i entered senior year, i became myself. i was still fat and gross and unpopular but i was totally fine with all of those things. and i could sense these positive changes in my life when i started to accumulate friends and i just started "hanging out" and it was the greatest feeling

this was around the time when i started drinking kind of heavily. i have never really been a badass about it. like

never, but it just seemed to help. a social lubricant indeed, but it did not seem to help my sex life, which was still

stagnant

i wonder why i was still so happy and at peace with myself. this inner contentment had come out of nowhere and just kind of taken hold of my life. it drove my parents nuts. maybe it was apathy, but i always thought of it moreso as an awareness that the universe had a place for me. it was funny, it was like saying in that i was special in the same breath as saying that i fit in perfectly;

because i really did.

but not in society. it always bothered me that people who showed up alone to places became ostracized from society in general. i was (and still am) gregarious and enjoyed other people's company as much as anything else, but i was also pretty happy with being on my own, because it allowed me to really think about things and listen to music

and that was always fun.

i think something that really unnerved people was my attitude towards death. i see all life as working towards death because as camus wrote it is the only absolute (i am paraphrasing a little)

i wonder if at this juncture in my life that these feelings of apocalypse and death exist because of this lack of connection or grounding in the society of my fellow men

is it because i do not have any close connections in my life that i feel so free? and i guess that if something happens that pulls me down that i will care about ADULTHOOD,

that big title thing that everybody seems to be waiting for

waiting for

taxes and insurance and housing mortgages and banks and the economy and medical liabilities and i just want to be healthy until i die

unbearable lightness.

Onitsuka Tiger Ultimate 81s

The stream burbles like a newborn. I pick my steps quickly but carefully over the softly draining floodwater. I don't really need to look "respectable", but why ruin Ultimate 81s? Feeling the path is only slowing me down, I run through the trees in an effort to buy a few more seconds. I feel a sigh through my hair. I am splashed with the odiferous warmth of summer.

At the apex of the hill I move swiftly between Grecian columns into a wide open courtyard. Stopping to gather my breath, I venture a 360 around my new environment. Rolls of green are punctuated by blotches of orange tile and pink stone. Majesties of stone and marble intersperse with those of wood and leaf all the way down the hill into the bay. I chuckle to myself. The Glade on the Grade. I propel myself out of the yard and pass a verdant field, incandescent with the collective exuberance of rich minds.

Almost there. With only a few yards left, I make a dash through what must be the last bit of genuine swampland west of the Bayou. As my socks soak up the warm liquid that is pooling around my feet, it feels as if they're also absorbing my dignity. The wet stain now coagulating on the spongey surface of my Onitsuka Tigers looks up at me accusingly.

Reviving what is left of my mortified pride, I swing open the door to the stone building closest to me. Accompanied by a friendly squelch, I wade through the hallway and into the room. Without making eye contact with anyone, I slam a stapled stack of paper onto a round desk.

I walk slowly down the steps that lead up to McCone and the whole world is laid out in front of me. My work is done. I take a step toward the path but stop. I look out past the streets laced with buildings and cars and onto the bay, which ripples in the May zephyr. A breeze plays around my already wet feet.

Dream of Me

Long whispers shape my song,

My message, language, love.

Articulate affections, reflections, sweet attentions.

I know

How your mouth moves.

I show

My teething groves

To you, my audience, listener, lover.

Hover over my neck and breathe.

My eyes close,

Your breath slows,

And goes rhythmic.

My song is rhythmic too.

Shall I sing to you?

Murmurs gush;

You doze;

I hush your silent lips,

As you lie amid my hips.

Listen, sleeping thing,

To my mind’s music.

Melody escapes my head.

I discard my skull like garments,

Shed, already on the floor.

Naked thought sings,

And brings you

Closer.

Dream of me, body.

You’ll know me better if you do.

In true slumber, make your insights mine;

line up the numbers on the dial

And wait a while, heavy one,

For the answer to come.

Be me, body.

See my world with hazel eyes.

Touch it with long fingers.

Know my lies.

See through my guise

From the inside now you know I show you so little

But tonight you see me fully.

So much you never knew-

I am more blowsy,

Lousy with colors,

Lavender, red, blue.

I’m getting drowsy too.

So will I dream of you?

Ships

With his print-spattered newspaper still open on the vinyl-coated coffee table, Jack picked up the cheque and exited the café. His arms stretched out in the autumn twilight and he took an icy breath. The wind rippled through his brown calfskin jacket as he stared nonchalantly at the street, at the shops, at the cars painted in their bright, rich hues. Jack fingered the coarse paper in his pocket. Cash caressed and slid lithely past his fingers.

He walked through the historic block, circling the roundabout and following the street up to the cobbled bridge. He climbed up the arch which spanned the width of the river, and upon reaching the top, looked out at where the estuary met the ocean. He rested one hand on the storied stone ledge and with the other, took out a pocket watch from his coat pocket. The glass was scratched and the numerals burnt off, but the watch still functioned. The seconds hand moved past the top to change 6:52 into 6:53. Jack looked away from the sea and moved down the arch to reach the other side. Hastily stuffing the watch back into his jacket, he smiled at the figure moving towards him from the pier.

"Kara," he said, when the woman had crossed the street and appeared in front of him. "You're late."

Kara smiled. Grabbing his collar, she leaned towards him and pressed their lips together. "You smell like coffee." She buried her face into his lapel. "It's nice."

"You're late," Jack repeated, sliding his hand into hers. Green light beckoned the two into the street and they walked in sync, steps locking into timeless rhythm as the sound of the sea hummed and mixed with the chirping of people in similar lockstep, shopping and waiting for tables. The couple moved purposefully through the throng of people and soon stopped in front of a large metal door. Jack reached past the money in his pocket to grasp cold, sharp steel. He drew it out and drove it into the lock. After turning it all the way around clockwise, he withdrew his key and beckoned Kara inside the warmly lit home which hid behind the dark façade.

"Hey." Kara smiled tenderly at the man as he busily closed the door. Jack didn't say anything. He removed his jacket, keys and his money onto the counter between the kitchen and the drawing room. He led her to the couch and her lips again met his. Their bodies fell onto the downy fabric. His fingers drew figures, as if in sand, on soft yielding surface.

The two slid off the couch and onto the floor. She held his arms in her hands and he grasped her pale shoulder blades at the point at which they met her neckline. The stirring of the sea from outside scored a shifting scene on the ground. Two ships swirled in the dim light's shadow, almost swallowed up in a wall of Turkish carpet, following each others' movements, dipping and diving.

Then, the dream was over. The wall clock read 8:00. Jack stood near the counter, looking at his pocket watch. His hands shook as he pored over the miniscule numbers. He picked up his money and stuffed it into the pocket of his trousers. He looked over at the girl.

"She won't ever find out. Don't worry," Kara reassured him as she buttoned up her shirt and picked up her jacket. "There's nothing more important to me than your happiness. I love y-"

"Here, let me walk you outside," Jack interrupted.

Syncope

n. (medical); a sudden, usually temporary loss of consciousness generally caused by insufficient oxygen in the brain.

~~~~~~~~

Though it was Cane who began the conversation, it was Sun who saw her getting off the train - looming far above the arc of his vision - not so much tall as cloudy. Autumn was kind - a lounge of sunshine, snow, a washing wind for each colour of the trees. New York State, blanched in blood and pearl and leaf, saw them curling back onto themselves until they fell. Sun beamed a ray, kissing cold and holding his fingers up. The East Coast.

Sun rose from the bench as Cane walked over, busily fishing something out of her backpack. Then, clutching a book in her hand, she pulled Sun into an energetic embrace. Sun's face pulsed with surprise, then softened. Cane took the book and stuffed it into Sun's hands. "Thank you," she finally said, "for the great read. I loved it."


"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it. It's one of my favourites. How was your trip?"


Cane moved her hair from her face and looked down, replying only-


"Hey Sun, you wanna light up?"

****

He fixed his eyes on the glass chamber, which glinted menacingly in the reflection of the railing, and flicked the cruel metal serration on the flimsy plastic nozzle. Holding it out, he leaned it over the pipe and lit the ewer. The flame licked hotly at his right thumb while his left tapped the hole at the bottom of the glass concavity. Facing downward, he took a deep breath and inhaled pungently into his body. Keeping the distillation in his lungs until he couldn't hold it anymore, he bent forward and coughed vigorously. The smoke whispered up into ozone.

"Fuck, Sun. When did you last get high?" Cane tried to hide obvious laughter. She moved from where she was standing at the railing and patted Sun on the back. With a last embarrassed cough, he passed the pipe back to her.

"So tell me." Sun regained his composure. "What's wrong?"

Cane straightened awkwardly. "This might sound strange." She drew a long, staggered breath and exhaled. "A few weeks ago, I lost my way. I don't mean physically. Honestly, nothing really initiated this change. If anything, I'd been feeling really good. One night I went to bed warm, content, spiritually sound, and then the next day I woke up feeling a mental exhaustion, as if I was just sick of everything and everyone I'd ever thought of as mine."

"Hmmm." Sun looked out to the traffic islands, the building buoys, the taxicab sharks, the salty road, feeling himself adrift. A dread all too familiar and tied up with the nebulae of smoke was creeping up to him. "But you're okay," he said out loud, still looking away from Cane, "you're just feeling what everyone feels. It is easy to become lost like this." Sun could already anticipate the minute of abject terror approaching his body. A heady summation, perhaps, of all that Cane was feeling. He breathed faster, releasing air as a visible hazy stream filling a sky that was growing smaller.

Sun lifted his head up and brought it down again. The nausea that was building in his body warped the dimensions of his sight. His mind became a drop-down menu upon which all the buttons had suddenly been pressed. Popups flitted past the firewalls so carefully fitted into place and his consciousness was surrounded by signs that all read *(NO) DIRECTION*. His eyes closed.

****

*Whiteness. Brilliant and shining whiteness. Then, the grey of floor, the tired pink of knees. Where am I? Who am I? What is this? Who are you? You're beautiful. Do I know you? Are you my friend? Are we close? Did we fuck? I'm on the ground, it's a little cold. September? October? Are you talking to me? I need some water. Water water water water water water water water water water water water water water water water water. The sun is going down. Yes, my name is Sun. I was just sitting here and I was talking and you were talking and I was talking. Did I miss the part where we fucked?*

"Sun," Cane repeated, "Are you okay?" Rifling through her bag again, she lifted out a metallic bottle, which she placed at Sun's lips. Sun shook his head and took hold of the reflective silver aluminum. He tilted his head back all the way so that the water filtered down through the rubber nozzle into his mouth and drained into his stomach. His eyes were still unfocused and glazed over and he looked past her as he gave her back the vessel.

"Don't worry about it, I'm fine."

"You fell on the ground. I… nobody has ever had that sort of reaction to weed in front of me before. You looked like you were having a fucking seizure!"

Sun finally looked at Cane. "It's happened before. I guess I haven't been hydrating myself enough. It's fine, though. To tell you the truth …I kind of enjoy it."

Cane still looked upset. She looked concernedly at Sun, as if trying to coax some sort of better answer from him. Sun shifted his weight on the ground and crawled closer to Cane before beginning to speak.

"Well, it's like… I guess I've been feeling the same way you have. I mean, I guess I never gave you an answer to your problem. At least not a proper one."

The wind blowing through Cane's hair framed her against twilit cyan. Sun started again. "I like people, I love having friends, I like the idea of having direction. But a lot of the time I just can't stand any of it. When pot fucks me up, it's like… After a minute of terrifying, overwhelming thought, I get 15 seconds of complete and utter dissolution of memory."

His face cracked into a slight smile. "I have no idea who anybody is when I'm in this state. I'm a newborn. I think it's worth a minute of fear to experience such a joy. It's like sleep. It's like a wonderful dream. It's the only way to live. Don't think about anybody. Don't do anything. Paint your room white. Get a cat."

Cane looked down at Sun, and then up at the sky where darkness was gathering.

On Love and Trust

Lush Tongue, though warm wintry whims
mold legs and hands and limb,
into a knotty oak,
distant comfort keeps Bright Eyes
from losing tender glow.

Tart lips, however,
creamy coated clams, whisper volumes of
dogmatic golden velvet verse.

Susurrations, full of phosphor,
on the seething, blinding,
raw
igniting light of moonstruck love,
and imprudent trust.

Meringue blanket,
framing art and soul - scarring self
to cut attachment to
a larger whole.

Niche fed, loving
fine alt-country chic, sartorial extravagance and
nice, transcendent,
he.

A Memory of Physical Beauty

The image,

overwhelmed by the need to use the basest of the senses,

of the two pretty specks

on the creamy canvas of perfect skin and

thousands of strings of silk

at once and

the equine potion

of bone and muscle

commanded actions like

a white and cherubian newborn.

I've Never Had A Job Because I've Never Wanted One

poetry pretentious,
the sun radiating a golden breeze
rays arc down past
warm and sweet and swift
love unattached,
the word just a word.
so much less spiritual,
my life is blossoming once and for all
like a harmony of sixths
fourths,
a second or two
past and i hope it remains like this forever
what a great conversation
a real metamorphosis
a clean scene break.
don't look back they say
but i'll do it,
the past is a vessel for my thoughts
history contains the beauty of feeling
wonderment gone past,
nostalgia that can't be held in
pretentious poetry.