17 February 2009

This is how you will achieve perfect symmetry.

Your heart, it palpitates so irregularly because it has already left you for an apocalyptic sect of late night infomercial fame.

Your remaining singular organs are fast approaching similar epiphanies--

Like your liver seeking God during inappropriate moments: uttering frantic dissections of hallowed syllables during office parties.

When these porous prophets seep sarin from ribcage slats your lungs are first to splatter their soggy masses against one another

though your kidneys are swift to follow suit; knotting together in preparation for the inevitable enlightenment.

Your brain expels from your body, poisoned and shrieking. It squirts a moist trajectory 25 centimeters long

before shriveling into two piles of dust, identical to the very last particle.

13 February 2009


There has been a great lack of pictures.

But right now I am thinking of empty parking lots and the quiet significance they hold within a suburban upbringing.

There are specific moments, like a well-aged American vehicle belonging to someone's dad idling by the self-pump row outside the Stewart's. I darted out of the store and there were a few seconds that felt meticulously terrifying. It was as if someone with a vast anatomical expertise had made an invisible incision in my cerebrum knowing that it would somehow culminate in the misperceived malleability of the asphalt that night.

Then there are those series of remembrances that blur and interlock into a panorama of ghosts. Like my first make-out session, which is actually all the make-out sessions that happened one winter. We spent hours on every corner of closed-for-season parking accommodations for college sporting facilities.

The longer I remain alone the more my previous values appear to me as abstracts. I yearn for stretches of concrete more than the people I used to tread upon it with. I feel estranged from my own memories. I could feel liberated by this, but I could also feel utterly demented.

I am not entirely sure which I prefer.

***(Stewart's' are an upstate New York chain of gas stations that are also famous for their ice cream.)

04 February 2009

Sometimes. (Most of the time.)

I think of time and space
as akin to hundreds of tons of metal
an oncoming train perhaps
or a fractured passenger flight steaming a sharp trajectory
towards my leaky skull.