procrastination

it's amazing how fascinating the world is . . .
when you're supposed to be ignoring it.
stolen moments are an addiction that i just can't beat.
there's a fairy with a tiny pitchfork sitting on my shoulder.
she uses it to point out the best distractions:

a song
a picture
a little boy on the bus
a flower newly bloomed
a pretty girl on a bicycle

and i look, like a fool, at anything she points out.
and i think, like a fool, about it for a few borrowed seconds.
and i waste, like a fool, whatever "extra" time i might have had.

but it is a treat to do what you are not supposed to. . .

my arms and ears are always open,

even when i try to keep them closed.

my heart cannot ignore you,

despite my best attempts.

unconditional love.

something old

the vibrations of sound are sneaky. in certain combinations, they induce time travel and bouts of paralyzing nostalgia. for each lost moment, a sound accompanies it, buried alongside it in my mind's depth. the subconscious noise of "i miss you" when i want to forget everything about you is only heard over low levels of minor chords. you know the feeling. on another note, there lies fantasy. a wish or a hope nestles itself between the melody and the bass line. it's what's in between that gives life it's fullness. "you" and i are in between. always have been. if our rhythm wasn't so far off, i would be more entitled to think us great composers. instead we are greatness unrealized. misshapen chords. disonant desperate attempts at harmonizing friendship and lust. it's what is between friendship and lust, melody and bass, that brings fullness. this is to let you know that
when the weather changes,
i sing your praises with words and phrases
that only you understand.
when a cool breeze rises,
lyrical surprises
find their disguises
in electronic poetry.

it's over now

don't lie about us.

it was what it was and it's over now.

coulda, woulda, shoulda done this or that.

it was what it was and it's over now.

no such thing as a do-over.

but don't lie about us.

just let it be what it was and let it be over now.

i said i was sorry and i meant every word.

but i'm not sorry now.

you made your choices and i've made mine.

somewhere along the way, we had some good times.

but don't lie about us.

it was what it was.

don't lie about us.

epiphany

it might mean something that all the songs that remind me of you were suggested by someone else.

new wave

pink checkerboard floor. a sputtering, spitting, liquid crack dispenser. 33 pages to go and all i can do is listen to the guy behind me reminisce with his friends about when he first started dating his current wife. "she told me she knew she was going to marry me before we ever even went out. i feel like i didn't have a choice in the matter." poor girl, i think. you're so lucky to have a woman who wants to love you for eternity. the guy at the table next to me seems thoroughly annoyed at having to hear this story, but not annoyed enough to get up and leave.

i left a long time ago. it feels like a waking dream being here.

dirty hipsters, caricatures of the "neighborhood kids," dressed in neon prints i used to wear before i dressed myself.

i must have superimposed childhood garb.

neurons firing in my brain or subconscious thought?

there is new art on the walls. they look like pieces i've seen before, maybe on a sunday afternoon excursion once.

i've been here before and i like it less now. today i like everything a little less.

1,000 foot steps today, farther away from him than yesterday yet still the world seems a little more grey, even as i surround myself with neon covered faces and neon covered spaces and not even the tiniest of traces of places we used to go.

the harder i try to forget, the more i'm forced to remember.

now there is lack of choice: being reminded.