| i have such nerd love for our english unit. i can't wait for college when it's literature and philosophy allll the time.
an excavation of my parents' old stuff this afternoon revealed to me their college student days: battered poetry books that i now love, james joyce novels, prose of my father's, poems of my mother's, dylan albums. in accompanying photo albums the version of them that i never knew is immortalized: long hair (on both of them...not a good look for my father), cigarettes, guitars, the look of "we're so young and brilliant and in love". it's weird that they existed this way once, chasing the same dreams i do now. i wish i had known these people, but i hope i don't turn out like them. i'm sure they're perfectly happy, but i often catch the look of suburban disillusionment when they advise against my struggling writer trying to make it in the big city plan or ask me what i intend for my "real career". maybe the dreams we have now can only exist in youth; maybe all growing up is, really, is cutting your hair and putting your books in dusty boxes for your kids to find someday.
if so, i never want to grow up.
|
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| where shit poses as
brilliance and we all
nod our heads when
they tell us how
to feel |
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| it would take me a week to drive to where you are
and when i walk to bed at night i turn the lights on as i go,
hoping not to suffocate in the blissful darkness and wondering
why we write poetry about car alarms and supermarkets in california
or why the west coast has everyone up in arms and ambition
and heroin needles, almost certainly. what dream did you awake to
when you followed nothing but air to the abandoned coasts
of the promised land, where golden destinies morph into our shattered hopes
and it takes four hours on the freeway just to get a cup of coffee
and love and touch and humanity are always just as out of reach.
it would take me a week to drive to where you are
but i will never start. the car sits idle in the driveway and i sit
idle too, dreaming of the beautiful people and the imaginary world
you write me about on the back of postcards from beaches and boardwalks,
wishing that those freeways lined with 7/11 big gulp cups and dreamseekers
were still all that stretched between us. |
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| and i don't mind racing through our goodbyes. |
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| i feel i am becoming terribly uninteresting by the minute.
sorry. |
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