It's been a very introspective last few days. Money and moving. Great changes: graduating after far too long a time, selfless love and 'all-that' - resumes and cover letters. All mundane, really. Parents wishes and eventual disappointments and pride. I really started smoking because a viola player in L.A. taught me how to light a cigarette off of another. In college, the first time I tried, it was an amazing freedom that let you smoke indoors. In Vermont it was the sandy-haired boy rolling stoned on the sidewalk that morning I woke up, and the skinhead, one jackboot perched on the road, one on the bridge-way. Vermont was always that morning: waking up hungover in a too-hot or too-cold bed and forcing myself to move. I lived on a river.
According to a number of psychiatrists there is a direct correlation between alcoholism and what is known in these circles as "love addiction". The former consists in the habitual consumption of sense dulling substances, while the latter consists in the habitual consumption of the exact opposite.
My father's been bothering me lately. We ate ice cream when he moved me out of his house, and he danced with pidgins. Then we drank coffee and talked about geopolitics. It's such a blatant symbol it makes me laugh: I couldn't find anywhere to piss - everything needed an ID card. I was everything he wanted to be: young and in New York and all I wanted was to have a piss and move home. There wasn't a smell, at first. He on his ferry, and me on my way to class, confused and thinking, "Oh, what an odd place New York is." All as usual. I remember, that morning, remembering the squirrel who used climb through our broken window and eat our fruit, always rotting and almost alcoholic-sweet, at that first apartment after my father and mother left one another.
There were wandering soldiers in Vermont, when I first lived there, looking for their war. There was a boy who looked like he'd been rolling in sand dunes for hours, sprawled on the sidewalk with his feet on the wall in front of him. There was a skinhead with one jackboot on the sidewalk, and one on the street. Once, while some folksinger was fellating himself on stage I kissed a girl. She cooked like it was an act of god, rolling thick leaves of basil between her fingers and smirking at her nipples. She would always be naked in the kitchen, feeling the softness of bread and smiling at her soups.
Overnight armies grew on the corners. There was a smell then. Little black beetles blocking the way to Brooklyn, watching their bridge. And a boy, I remember, walking confused, almost stoned seeming, with nothing but dust and sand covering his skin.
And even months later my father came to town, and love's heartsick guard dog stood behind us as He inhaled ash and cried at the shirts and signs hanging on the fences built around the church.
"Everyone talks like they're coming down in New Jersey," she said, fascist dancing, "It's a twitching and desperation: the City's sadder cousin." With mice in her chest she covered it all in snow, and let a giant concrete rabbit fill her pockets with posies. And that was that, for then.
According to a number of psychiatrists there is a direct correlation between alcoholism and what is known in these circles as "love addiction". The former consists in the habitual consumption of sense dulling substances, while the latter consists in the habitual consumption of the exact opposite.
My father's been bothering me lately. We ate ice cream when he moved me out of his house, and he danced with pidgins. Then we drank coffee and talked about geopolitics. It's such a blatant symbol it makes me laugh: I couldn't find anywhere to piss - everything needed an ID card. I was everything he wanted to be: young and in New York and all I wanted was to have a piss and move home. There wasn't a smell, at first. He on his ferry, and me on my way to class, confused and thinking, "Oh, what an odd place New York is." All as usual. I remember, that morning, remembering the squirrel who used climb through our broken window and eat our fruit, always rotting and almost alcoholic-sweet, at that first apartment after my father and mother left one another.
There were wandering soldiers in Vermont, when I first lived there, looking for their war. There was a boy who looked like he'd been rolling in sand dunes for hours, sprawled on the sidewalk with his feet on the wall in front of him. There was a skinhead with one jackboot on the sidewalk, and one on the street. Once, while some folksinger was fellating himself on stage I kissed a girl. She cooked like it was an act of god, rolling thick leaves of basil between her fingers and smirking at her nipples. She would always be naked in the kitchen, feeling the softness of bread and smiling at her soups.
Overnight armies grew on the corners. There was a smell then. Little black beetles blocking the way to Brooklyn, watching their bridge. And a boy, I remember, walking confused, almost stoned seeming, with nothing but dust and sand covering his skin.
And even months later my father came to town, and love's heartsick guard dog stood behind us as He inhaled ash and cried at the shirts and signs hanging on the fences built around the church.
"Everyone talks like they're coming down in New Jersey," she said, fascist dancing, "It's a twitching and desperation: the City's sadder cousin." With mice in her chest she covered it all in snow, and let a giant concrete rabbit fill her pockets with posies. And that was that, for then.
iggy:
And the giant concrete rabbit still resides in my car.