weak knees

gutters awash with the bones that used to make up a human structure.

we are all radicals now,

now, we are all vandals.

i spit on buildings and get odd looks

from business men, teenagers, and winos

this is the life.

-----------------------------

people often ask me which i enjoy more; Sunrises or Sunsets. the truth is i revel in both.

they are transitional periods of time in which you have yet to establish a plan of action. i am still working on mine.

that same answer could be applied to the question as to whether or not i enjoy waiting for drug dealers.
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gutters awash with human remains
dogs gnawing on bones
so this is what it feels like to leave home
leaving home
monsters around every corner
now we're leaving home
city blocks lay claim to our vestigial lives
i can't remember the address
empty cigarette packs and crushed light-bulbs
a cluttered room
hope for some answers
anytime now they'll come

the apathetic nights of middle america.

something is sick in the soil, my legs ache with the solemn guilt prescribed by a puritan puppet dictator. we huddle around softly burning nooses and wish that we could have utilized them in a more cowardly fashion. the apathetic nights, the lonely nights, the nights where you go off with the boys to drink beer and build a fire, the nights where you're fueled with amphetamine and construct plans out of intangible objects presented to you by the local city council. we are young, our chests resonate with the hope of punk rock yet we all we are surrounded by the same suffocating miasma which clogs the arteries feeding our delirious fantasies of a life not so marred by the grievous actions of our forefathers. how can we pretend that our history is not a vacuum of prejudices? we are all niggers. how can we pretend that our history is not just a story of secret passion and latent homosexuality? we are all queers. reality is a fascistic mechanism constructed by old white european men who never had to lift a finger. this authority is necessary, and without?

well i'd still be sitting by the river drink beer like a townie, except...there is no town here

when home becomes a word as casually discarded as the reason which those "in charge" have so easily discarded, the lines begin to blur. and nothing looks clear anymore. it's all a muddled romp of excess and self-indulgence. wishing that there could be a town here, a place where the silent sunday mornings cleanse the tar off of your nicotine stained lungs and that booze on your breath isn't so bad anymore. if there was a town here we'd all be saved individuals in the church of an ambiguously calm life, we can dream and wander and hope

and yet i'd still be sitting by the river drinking beer like a townie, but I already learned there is no town here.

buzzing in the hollows, the morning light stings his skin and he gives a sickening delirium tremor moan he lay there shivering on the hardwood floor, awake but with eyes closed i am watching him from the couch sucking at a pall mall and a holding a tape recorder

this is a straight narrative

this is fucking hell

awake.

...

crushing weight on every doorstep

thousands of lights make perfect cityscape halo

violently crashing into ethereal planes

makeshift wooden swords and tree-forts lay nestled into the woods beyond town

secrecy blankets every surface like pesticides

keeping all sorts of pests at bay

Stupor--is the lack of critical cognitive function and level of consciousness wherein a sufferer is almost entirely unresponsive and only responds to base stimuli such as pain. The word derives from the Latin stupure, meaning insensible. Being characterised by impairments of reactions to external stimuli, it usually appears in infectious diseases, complicated toxic states, severe hypothermia, mental illnesses (e.g. schizophrenia, severe clinical depression), vascular illnesses (e.g. hypertensive encephalopathy), neoplasms (e.g. brain tumors), vitamin D deficiency and so on.

Stories set in Garages

Aurora, MN:

Thomas had never seen his mother in such distress. She was literally pulling her hair out, screaming and crying, cussing and damning. He had killed a number of animals before; frogs, squirrels, rabbits, snakes. So he couldn't understand why his mom was so torn up over this mangy cat that the front tire of his BMX was crushing. 

13 months later Thom's mother killed herself by drinking a gallon of Draino

when Thomas was 19 he came out of he closet

...he couldn't help but feel that both were his fault