(culled pith from old pre-meds live journal entries)
from 1/28:
What is worse: To not receive a return text message from the one you love, or to be tortured by the Catholic Inquisition?
To have the most beautiful creature turn their back on you after wooing you with their flowery lies,
or to be drawn and quartered in the public square?
The unrequited love is worse
because it's harder to pinpoint - no one else understands it.
Torture only hurts the body, and your screams are the signal your body exists==
love hurts the soul, and only poetry can give that pain voice,
and poetry takes unbroken fingers
while the heart
can never gauge its fractures,
until its pulled from its rib prison
and held, still pulsing,
before its horrified front-page mirror.
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the best thoughts are the ones most easily lost. -- (They Spoon fed me Ritalin - 1/3/08)
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After visiting my 97 year-old grandmother in Chicago - 12/08:
....all through the long visits I felt death pull me like gravity, like time pulls the meat off a chicken bone, like it pulls the planets along behind it as it sucks and roars along, like stringed tin cans on a wedding-cum-funeral car, like Flash Gordon gradually fading into youtube and then all just raw conscious thoughtlessness - a dull roar of white static, in which you may at times think you hear the ocean, or vice versa... all voices that you hear are your own, you realize, in this 2001-Kubrick room of the self, and outside that, the serpent swimming through the blue veins of your aging relations, swimming both towards you and away, towards you and away...
I've been unable to leave the house, no matter where I go.
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from "Nobody Feel as Bad as Good as Me" - May 6, 2007
Spring is fall's dark underbelly,
so much shinier,
so much more poisonous,
its dandy pollen separating me from the herd
to the fringe
where the wolves of lonesome wait
for the prey too sneezy
to see them.
I'll be up out of this mountain soon,
once again the stronger for all the climbing
and skin tougher from all the wolf bites,
my steely artistic persona warped from the forge's constant flame,
the God who shapes me as tireless
and dissatisfied
as Picasso
with nothing but sand and sea
for His clumsy canvas.
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" Suicide is like peeking at your presents before Xmas..." -- From Too Pissed to be Zen, to Zen to be Pissed 1/5/07)
