I am a disillusioned intellectual with revolutionary tendencies and uncompromising dreams.

I’d rather be this than an ignorant bastard who lives on lies.

I’d rather be stoic and melancholy than angry and violent.

But then again …

the two sides are so close the thin line vibrants from our passionate breathing and i can feel the pull of Newtonian physics, the natural attractive force of bodies pulling at my reserves.

i know i must keep self-aware and honed to never take that rhetorical step between logos and eros.

thinking, light dripping across foreheads, illuminated … always the illumination of darkness that binds me … i can hear talk of class and people, of procrastination and insecurity, of obvious sex and attentive smiles … but they spill over in a breeze like humanity and uncertainty, of hope and loss, noddingly acceptable but hesitatntly thorough and never too far from shadowed corners of safety … the ones with bright eyes and brighter intentions, shouting in whispers and glasses under the light fixtures that keep me weighted for the moment … contemplating the reproductions of if stark reality could be paralyzed and illumination could be thought of with more than a wincing, cringing discomfort … sensibility usually fears things that are unknown … while i, i enjoy the light shards across plains of landscape everydays … hard desk, worn pencils, quivering hands and such … gravity is not always the executioner to leaning bridge suicides and i am not always the light victim here …

never could analyze light reflecting patterns … no … it was always too unspoken to be known … the things that are without words thankfully … such an old worn out langauge couldn’t keep up with us anyway …

i remember your hands and the veins that would bulge beneath as you played with strings on a guitar and nights on my skin and i thought between the haze of it all maybe there was something i was missing … the dashing and white knight mentality a little too much for me at first … the ringing of telephone electric signals shouting at me to get my attention and gregarious enough to pay attention … to every word whispered like dreams … soft and faint and disappearing when you try to hold on to it too much … like you … but the past is such a thing as well and i try to hold on to remembering exactly why … that was always it though; there is no why … there is only what is done … a widing oblivion of moments i want to remember and you want so much to forget and you always did eventually get what you wanted … you being the split-second syndrome and i the infinite night stars victim , the broken mirror stereotype … i am only a passing dream, forgotten at dawn … you never were much of one for the morning after

anybody out there? today ends again, night again, day again, fight and fleeing from me where the days are a daze and fragmentary abyss is better than nothing at all … talking is for confidence and lying is for self-delusion … always thought things might be deeper than the surface but this is all just one split moment, you know? flying like spiderwebs next to a combine tractor fielding wheat, fielding wheat, grandpa is in heat, never responds to “no,” he could never hear very well anyway … sheep are so symbolic like my shoes and the way the drift over pavement and the way the wind brings sea smells swimming and decaying … and all i can think of is rotten fish … memories … if they weren’t the substance of life what then? the single moment i keep forgetting i’m in? passing as shoes shifting through the alleyway, i never tire of diffused streetlamps like old gold like i do when i listen to happy voices trailing words of meaningless acceptance and raining silence above all the chatter … that is it, a noisy silence that i can’t stand … a loud voice shouting nothing … opening and closing, laughing as if on cue … i never asked you to pay attention anyway

so … my mother is getting a hysterectemy (however you spell it) … i don’t want to say about this … she can’t drive a car for 2 weeks … can’t walk up stairs for 2 months … i miss my mom

also: here’s something that occurred to my sweeping, complex-driven thought process, while fingering books on the passing of time and trying to give an explanation to the unexplainable, modern art ramblings and such … it occurred to me that the the government has more moral dilemmas about funding individual artist’s protest of societal repression (particularly Mapplethorpe’s photography emphasizing homosexuality) than funding weapons of mass destruction with the ultimate purpose of annihiliating nature, human & animal lives. How fucked are we when we—as a group, a community, a culture, a society—can support the slaughter of whole countries and the people that just happen to be in them, but absolutely cannot stand art of a sexual nature and tear down—as a group, a community, a culture, a society— works of art with old men in lengerie that happen to have a striking resemblance to a late, respected governor? How can we (by our actions alone) think that killing mass amounts of people is more acceptable than putting a piece of fucking art on the wall that has penises on it?!!! Fucking A!!! And that saying “Fuck” during such a protest statement (in front of congress shall we say) would make more waves than the possibility of a starving child or blown up body parts in Afhganistan! FUCK! Just don’t show them the pictures, right?

personal reminder: don’t forget to write an essay on the difference between the machine and wooden doll metaphors. an idea fades if not made concrete i have found. and i’m always forgetting …