Remember you are strong and punch a hole in the ceiling

Let the sun lay itself on everything but your twin-sized bed. Remember you are cold and let the soggy November breezes find their way to your bones. Look at yourself. Let your hands know everything and everywhere, and let your shoulders remain a slender mystery. Remember you are a forest fire and let the wind be your stylist. Remember you are strong and rip doors from their hinges. Throw them into the air with your laughter. Remember that the world can see you.

A Pick-Up Truck Can Carry About A Thousand Dollars Worth of Dead Raccoons

"I think it would be the kind of hunting you would like the most. You drive around smoking joints and listening to loud music and you shoot animals. It's pretty fun"

Very true

There Are No Punk Rock Ballads

"Steel on the skyline
Sky made of glass
Made for a real world
All things must pass

Waiting for something
Looking for someone
Is there no reason?
Have I stared too long?"

-David Bowie, "Heathen"

For example: When I was
younger, a teenager, I took

things that didn't belong
to me or maybe anyone

change on coffee tables
or road signs covered

in vines, holiday decorations,
bicycles. I stopped

for no righteous reason, I
simply grew away from it. Well,

One night I fell for a bell
shaped compulsive liar in

an attic bedroom. Her
complexion absorbed light

passing through the skylight. Her
stories don't make sense and the

people may have never existed, but
understanding was not a part

of our love. Sometimes I would
catch her slipping into fiction, and,

obviously concerned, she would leap
to kiss me, springing from her hands,

the same hands that slipped my
possessions into her purse. A

forty-five, a wooden pipe, vintage
clothes and shot glasses. Two years

later and I'm not sure if she
took anything with her.

Death and Texas

The moon swings like a dull scythe loosely held
by fleshless fingers on a summer night
and scarce can anyone this evening say
that it is anything less than a glimpse
into the mind of death itself, to know
who sees the sun for one more day and those
who fall like dying flowers in the cold.
So when we few fearful men came to ask
if the sorrow of death (and mine the same)
should make us take some pity on ourselves
we came to understand, without sadness,
that the sun surely brings us the day. But

Death will rest, as sure, and wake with the moon
to deliver us from summer too soon.

Sorry.

I don't do much here. But first:

Thanks to the handful of people who have read what I've posted here. Oh, and everyone who has commented tends to be a better writer/human being than myself, and you/they deserve credit/kudos for that. w/e.

So anyways. I don't do much here because I've been taking a break from the internet.

My social life is out of control. I am 'busy' for the first time in my life, whatever that means. I have ways of dealing with it, mostly illegal, fairly predictable, but enjoyable.

The more uncertain my future gets the happier I am, but I feel like there will be a point when I grow up very quickly. Some situations that would cause me to grow up:

I get arrested.

A parent dies.

Blood shows up when I cough.

I lose my job.

A car accident injures me moderately.

Radiohead puts out a terribly boring record (I feel this is least likely to happen).

John McCain wins the presidency of United States.

Barack Obama wins, then is murdered on live television.

Certain friends grow to despise me. 

Former adversaries become friendly acquaintances.

I father a child.

There could be more.

None of these things have happened, so I remain a twenty-year old male with high ambition seeking the path of least resistance while hiding behind a shroud of 'personal experiences' that supposedly shapes personality.

Side note: I want to submit poetry for many new sites started by some acquaintances. If you are one of these people, I'll try to get something to you soon.

Out of all the things that have happened around me over the last two months, one reassuring moment of clarity: Poetry has helped turn me into a better person. That seems like a ridiculous sentence to say but I feel like I neglect or ignore certain things that are far more important to me than I'd like to let on.

But not poetry. it's fucking great. it's the bees knees.

goodnight.

good idea/bad idea

lets start a band called felix lighter

a stoner-rock/shoegaze mix with

a little bit of neil young

we'll get a van

a big van for our instruments

and people we pick up

on the street

there will be fights

someone will get punched

for crossing some line

but never in the van

because it will explode

teach me a D chord

it's the rock and roll note

then teach me A minor

because it is frail

and tell me it's a song

so i can stop watching myself

in the rearview mirror

on long trips

run (on and on and on)

i am done running.

i have moved.

last year i moved on a piece of rubber

attached to machine

attached to my feet.

i ran two miles.

once.

i have moved in.

four weeks ago i jumped

out of a parachute

out of a plane.

in and of the sky all at

the same time.

the pilot waved goodbye.

he wished me good luck.

thumbs up, two.

i fell in

into the dirt and grass

my sides split open and everyone was watching.

the pilot came.

two thumbs, down.

even though he flew my plane i had never seen him before.