the summer is
a play of orange book bags
on the blazing
concrete-
at 3 pm.

the slow move
of twenty year old
limbs wading
through the eternal
afternoon.

everything passes
through space
like sea-animals
at the aquarium,
in sticky spools
of laminated
water.

you don't much
buy the sincerity
of the summer
for its lack of
urgent time.

In the 6 am
the rising sun
is a whore
that touches everything.
glazes the roofs of cars
rubs eye-shadow
on the trees
and ices
the lean electricity poles
like plump e-clairs
ready to be bitten.

I glare,
they snatch-
I simper,
they laugh.
the limbs
of my puzzle piece
grow rounder,
the layers
are sloppily
exposed-
and all the
other players
are an ever awkward
flat plain- as my
restless edges
creep above
the straight plateau-
come back
they whisper.
and like the corners
of a page
I curl farther
and farther
into myself.

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I hate everything I write. I can't bear to look around my room and see the stacks of books and papers in a muddle on the floor, a useless verbal city trying to cave out meaning. I can't bear to stand the stability of my steps. I can't quiet down the injustice, I can't feel any peace or silence except engulfed in the crevices of my folded body like ( Read more... )

My arm is doing a lot better. I think I am going to buy a bike today and maybe tonight Tony will help me convert it to a single speed. I have a final in twenty minutes. I hate studying, i'm so sick of the repetition. I can't get Kelly off my mind. I think I might have a heart attack from all this caffiene. Can't wait to see Eli tonight, bubble

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