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Breath a bit deeper and wait for the rest to hit because I know its not over yet.  I’ve felt the hiccups for longer.  Chalk this one up to lack of experience and let’s go for a run. We got this. I promise.

Notes on dating a Rebel

She looked at me as if she knew me. And every so often I get to see the personification of love poems and each time, I have to find new ways of sketching the streaks of rebellion I find in her hands.  After stepping through the same formalities each day, the alien hairs on my jacket are becoming welcome and finding a home.  Ripping through the proper channels I’ve become so accustom to and giving mobilization to sedentary creative tracts.  The thing about kissing a woman that smokes is that after a while I begin to lust for the way her lips leave a trail back to mine.  A lighter can always be found to en-kindle the long stemmed roses tracing curves, crescent moons enticing the incense of whispers, and the dream catchers tattooed to the intimate moments found in temperate quilts.  And at night, I can find it in each of your eyes.  Between dormancy and a fluttering gaze, I find where I want to be.

Ponds with Liquor

The lower road to Nirvana is layered with diluted liquors that stop the exploitation of romance. Drunken words may be sober thoughts, but liquid courage is the only thing that lets the passion become lost in translation. Get some stronger medication because crimes of the heart will not be lost with one royal screw up. Come to where the stream spits out mistakes and go for a swim in the dark. Closed eyes bring worlds into a more personalized focus and in the loosened gravity of the water, find the pulsation created by the ripples and move. Search for the koi and and angel fish moving from the mass in the warmth, but cautiously finding their way towards outstretched palms. And when the comfort wears off from the water, dry out on rocks and make way to find more comforting embraces because the beauty is still in the mind.

Thoughts on Learning

I have a headache so lets share stories and divide these new friends by the about of moments linked to pumping stereos.  Something about me seeing that the ‘a’s have little hats on top of them give me a feeling that I need to stop dressing with the “somedays”. The thoughts of maybe someday I’ll be able to straighten out Slinky problems and follow the chrome path to the days where I’m able to sleep in with out thinking to much about it.  Someway, I’ll find my way to the spot where I can send postcards of my view from the top of canyons that are carved red by years of thought and time.  I need to stop expecting myself to find a way into pretending that I have my shit together and that someday I will be able to write an ‘a’ with the hat on top.  I’ve aged a little bit, but airports could still teach me about a passionate kiss goodbye than what I’ve had, hospitals have held more prayer during a handful of operations than my rosaries, and tree bark is the only one who could show me how to suffered for love.  I’m still asking the swing sets to give me a lesson in jumping forward, but I still need to stop for a second and place myself back into where I am now.  Someday I might be able to go back to someplace warmer with a richer scenery, but right now I’m here with the trees. Still learning to grow.

My Malapropisms

This has been the week of accidental all-nighters with new friends and I’m okay with that.  I’m experimenting with this style of writing, and I’m not sure how to feel about it.  Anyway, this is based off of a conversation I had the other night I had with a friend, so you’re not reading it and thinking 'Duh fuck' ‘What’s going on?

I learned a few new things about myself.  I’m good at making friends that have the same eye color. When I say ‘eye color,’ I mean same ‘questions about life,’ and when I say ‘life’ I mean questions about ‘religion.’  Not to say I’m nonreligious, but more of a reminder that when I say ‘religion,’ I mean ‘right and wrong,’ and when I say ‘right and wrong’ I mean ‘am I wrong?’ and of course I’m speaking in malapropisms because we are in the same boat and drinking the same sea water, and you could have guessed that the sea water is really vodka. Which explains why this night is going so swimmingly, and I find irony in that because I’m not much of a swimmer, and when I say ‘swimmer,’ I mean ‘artist,’ meaning I’ve never been able to paint out a mural that encompasses my story because I believe I haven’t found the right color.  But the thing is, I would rather use the word ‘imagined’ for ‘found’ because I’ve held my creativity at unhealthily high standards, and I can not expect my imagination to do as I tell it.  My creativity is a wild dog and will not come when I call it, I’ve gotta chase it down and wrestle with it.  While I’m thinking about it, I’m not much of a wrestler and I would rather have a drink with it, because what wild dog wouldn’t agree to a good brandy.  Well maybe not good, but one that would loosen the tongue and let us talk about our life, and religion, and right verses wrong, and liquors, and romance, and our impossible to see future.

Something to Celebrate

A little bit ago, a friend of mine sat me down and had a talk with me about what I’m doing with my life.  I needed the talk, but what came out of it was a realization that I have far to many contingency plans and I kinda don’t like that.  Any-who, I’ve been left with deciding a lot things,   and writing kinda helps, so here we go.

Sue me, but I’m still looking for my something to celebrate.  The shivered space between fingertips pushed some sort of button that made it possible for me to say “I don’t know,” and I’m kinda okay with that.  I’m through threading needles to sew up more of my loose-ended, self-prescribed, definitions of success.  I’m done peering through these button holes to try to look at my impending after teenage years.  I’ve done enough running from what I love in my life.  And to tell you the truth, I stutter when ever I start to care to much.  I place the wrong accents on syllables when I become passionate.  I use to tell myself when I was little, the reason my hand writing is so bad is because my mind had so much love for thinking, that my hands couldn’t keep up with the excitement.  I thought, one day I’ll be able to make the hats on the tops of my ‘fives’ like my father does, with one clean finite slash that trails off into grainy space.  The air in the room has matured, but my mind still loves to run faster than my heart can keep up.  Over the years, I’ve gotten really good at confusing indifference and sadness, which is why it looks like I stop caring when my most important things leave me.  I’ve started shutting the windows to stop my baggage from fleeting away from me.  I’ve searched for something to celebrate for to long and I need to stop. I already know what I love.

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