Tuesday, September 15, 2009

future boyfriends of america

'i remember once i wrote about how all i wanted from this life was some strange pretty girl to come pick me up after school in a beatup old brown car and drive me up high in to the mountains and rivers with a mixtape where we sang along real loud to the choruses and didn't get embarassed when the verses came on and we didn't know the words. i guess it still sounds nice.'

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

in the mourning

yesterday was my first day without a drop of the liquid since a long time. maybe since a.a. last summer. as expected i slept like shit.

dreamt about a billie holliday biopic starring scarlett johannson, massive lols. my brain totally got her face right, sorta creepy.

when i walk around st. paul in my tight hip clothes and supercute indy herr-cut and funky right-eye infection i keep secretly hoping gus van sant is going to drive by and see something angelic in my teenage strut and be inspired and pick me up uncreepily into his escalade and make me the star of his new film, which will be like a coming-of-age-story set in the drizzly nw about young punx with cute indy herr-cutz who become embroiled in like dostoevsky-type issues of sin and mortality and other Big Time stuff. then inevitably i remember he made "paranoid park" and grow resentful and disillusioned toward the hypothetical mr. van sant.

i wonder if i got hypnotized if i could recall things that occured while i was blackedout drunk. like for example whose calvin klein sunglasses wound up in anna's car. was i driving around superfucked w/ some weirdsy i met at a bar who forgot her sunglasses? vaguely terrified about this.

been awhile since i had legitimately new thoughts in my head. lots of mantras and recurring themes in the brain, i.e. being crushed by a huge block of concrete, getting shot by someone i don't know in a random act of streetside violence, etc.

a life as routine and unremarked-upon as a tit on premium cable.

Saturday, April 4, 2009


a party at the end of route 525
on the first friday of the fourth month
i find myself alone with the bottle and everyone
and i decide to play a drinking game:
every time i drink, i drink.
and when i turn slurred, sink into the couch
and fold myself into the shapes of past mistakes
your unblinking bored eyes
halo mine from across the room
and we turn towards each other
like flowers keeping secrets from the sun.
i don’t want to fuck.
i want to meet you later
in some weird white bedroom
where we undress ourselves
and you tell me a story
about pretending to have skin cancer in third grade
because you wanted to be different.
tell me all the stories your mouth doesn’t make
when you hold a red plastic cup
in circles of lopsided cigarette grins.
our teeth touch
and we whisper vague, emotional words in the dark
that we know won’t come up in the morning.
it’s like singing a song into a cereal bowl
or slipping in the shower-
only the invisible things are around when it happens.