It was so unexpected.
Life was too. But at least life was malleable. There was some semblance, or at least the illusion of some semblance, of control.
I don't really know what there is.
They all said I was getting better I felt like I was getting better then suddenly I was…
And I bet when it happened,
some people cried,
and some were stoic.
Uncomfortable phone calls were made.
What do you say?
And I bet two people were half naked when it rang.
I bet they were laying in one of those perfect moments with the right person at the right time, but maybe the wrong place.
And it being the wrong place just made it all the more right.
And I bet he never saw it coming as the tile floor cooled his steaming back.
I bet he held her, seemingly composed, when in reality his mind was overheating.
I bet he turned to stone.
I bet he does that a lot.
I'm sure he was a statue at my funeral. Seeing my body all plastic and strange. I bet he
vowed to never have an open casket. And I bet he was disturbed by all the Christian
memorabilia surrounding a man who owned, and loved, the collected works of Nietzsche.
I bet he wanted to shake strangers and level city blocks.
He wanted to hunt, to taste blood, to live as a beast.
To make new craters on the moon.
But I bet he didn't.
I bet he just wondered why it was so upsetting to see a man surrounded by things in death that he despised in life. Why the hell should I care? I'm dead. And if I don't care, should it really matter to anyone else?
And I bet he wondered about whether or not he was a good enough friend. What if he would've been around that night? Did he call enough and compromise? Did he talk too much? Did he get too busy and not make time? Did he keep too much to himself? Or maybe not enough?
And I bet he wondered why it feels wrong to write a story from my perspective, no matter how fictional it may be.
And most of all, I bet he is never going to get it.
You Sir, are Truly Revolutionary!
give me overcomplicated words.
regale me with your compositions for that two piece brass band,
or perhaps, if i might be so lucky, explain to me how rhythm works, in brazil.
your lightly unshaven face,
your left of center politics,
your knowledge of caffeinated beverages,
please, dear god please,
teach me the ways of the individual.
the one and only.
because style, my friend (or at least I hope, one day, to call you that),
is never fleeting.
I'm approaching apocalypse,
aimless and agitated.
And it's clear now, that there is more than one way to the gates of hell.
So while Jesus, he tells me,
"Hey, nobody's perfect",
they beg to differ.
Pages and Pages and Pages
It wasn't living my life through literature,
but the other way around.
It was less about turning pages,
and more about turning corners…
never realizing that most every metaphor
was just another empty promise.
Forever a mirage.
A false oasis,
constructed by words
mixed with contempt or faith or spite or loneliness,
where every drop tastes so much like broken glass.
And it's in this place, with sand dribbling, out my mouth,
that I look back at what used to be current events.
What used to be, malleable.
And I can't help but wish at times,
that this water would turn into wine once again.
I genuinely smile
at the fact that I'm smiling
only because I think that strangers will like
a happy person.