He’s been coughing a lot lately.
And he kind of hopes that it’s something serious.
Like something that could really put him out for a while.
His lungs feel inflamed
and his throat…
it’s scratchy and scaly.
Oh to be hobbled…
or humbled he supposes.
Fucking balance beam.
Fucking broken foot.
Fucking cracked equilibrium.
With a broken face and a chipped stem he went to find the most serene places he knew.
They were all short visits.
Who would have ever thought that ‘dirt nap’ would start to serve up a romantic connotation?
He said that there was no explanation.
No deep ceded reason.
He had no desire to search for a psychosomatic meaning.
Simply put, he would say-
The thought 0f resting my head on the soft earth beneath our feet is very calming.
Relieving.
And after that, there was no talk.
He just sat there taking deep breaths and inhaling the air.
He said that he didn’t care much.
He’d much rather not pay attention to it and ignore the existence of the day altogether.
He knew that people cared.
He cared too.
But maybe they wouldn’t.
He banked all of his current thoughts on the idea that “maybe they wouldn’t”
I still wished him a wondrous day//
From a high school notebook:
What’s your profession again?
-Dude, I told you this a thousand times.
Right. You said you’re a bullet dodger. What the fuck does that mean?
-I dodge bullets dumbshit. All day. My compensation- I live to see another day.
That’s the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard.
He said he missed his parents
and that the sun never shining was beginning to wear him down.
I had nothing to say.
He said it was a motherfucker. A motherfucker that intruded on his well being and his ability to see passed things.
He said that that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing-Semi obliterating his idea of self to pieces and making it difficult to breathe another breath in a town that is closing in around him is ok.
Action. Or lack there of.
That’s become the motherfucker. The white elephant that dances on his head while he sleeps.
But smiles still come wrapped in deterioration.
I felt bad. But thought it could be worse.
He said that he didn’t really know if it mattered anymore.
He said that he couldn’t tell me what ‘it’ was but he knew that he wasn’t sure.
facing the wall, out of the corner of his mouth and in a hushed whisper he said-
They’re going to kill me tonight
I wonder if Colorado really does get 300 days of sun
AND
I love my sister
He said that his dreams were overcrowded with people plotting to destroy him.
He said the he already felt dead as tears rolled down both sides of his face.
This was nothing new.
He said that he so wanted to knock his own teeth out that he would gnash them.
Hard. Often.
He said gnashing his teeth didn’t necessarily hurt as much as he wanted it to but his consistent gnashing was causing a couple of teeth to sharpen to uncomfortable but satisfying points.
He also said that he was afraid that when he died his memories would die too.
He was upset that no one would know what Christmas present meant the most.
No one would know which smiles on his friend’s and loved one’s faces were burned into the folds of his brain.
He said that he wasn’t sure why he wanted his memories to be eternal when he knew that he couldn’t be.
He thought that it may be because things remained perfect and pure in his memory.
He said the world was beginning to make his stomach wretch.
And that he loved his mom.
And also that he was done talking about it.
BLONDE ON BLONDE 