Paper planes.

We sat in the middle of the bridge,

and made paper airplanes

with posters we found in a record store dumpster.

We stood on the railings

and threw them in the river.

You are an engineering student,

but your plane didn't fly much further than mine.

I hope we can fly again.

Justice

I want you to be held responsible

and pay

for what you did...

and, as soon as I find out

the most effective way

to do so...

I will.

You can count on that.

Wrong.

I don't want to see your fire ever go out.

No matter what this shitty world throws.

You get so much more than you deserve,

and so much less than you deserve.

1,2,3,4

Every time

we high five

it makes me

want to

hold your

hand

a little

longer.

Illumination.

Woke up this morning

to a bouquet of

sunflowers

on my porch.

I have good friends.

Real good.

Noise

Tonight,

for the first time ever,

a boy offered me his jacket

because I was cold.

I bought him pancakes.

And also his train-hopping friend.

Milwaukee on a Friday night.

Milwaukee on a Friday night.

I play Scrabble

with a ex-hippie.

He tells me he pre-dates them though.

63 years young.

I grocery shop

with a train hopper,

fresh from a Seattle eastbound.

He carries three knives

at all times.

I watch a punk rocker

with big blue eyes

make a four egg omelet

with five month old eggs.

I get my picture taken

with a man in a mask,

and feather boas.

It was his idea.

I drink

two liters of Robinade.

Old school lemonade,

because I don't drink.

And mostly because

I like Robin Yount's mustache.

And I sit

and dance

and laugh

with my best friend.

And those other new friends.

And thank...

thank them, that I'm alive.

Milwaukee. On a Friday night.

Happy Birthday

They had survived.

The car rolled three times,

or maybe it was four,

and landed upright

as a mangled pile of metallic blue,

like a wad of paper sailing to a wastebasket.

The cracked radiator hissed quietly.

They were fragile.

They had been heading to a birthday party,

for a little blonde haired girl.

She was turning three,

and excited for them to arrive.

They were there.

The rescue squads only took

maybe, 10 minutes

Though, it could have been

10 hours, or 10 days.

All felt valid.

The back seat door,

where they had been,
was being opened by men with gloves.

As the door swung open,

three balloons floated out.

Cups

a homeless man walks into a coffee shop

he has been there before

the last time, he asked for a free cup of coffee

he walked out with a half cup

and seven pounds of corned beef

the coffee barely made it out the door

the beef, however, had a much better run

but still fell far short

of it's expiration date

which was in four years.

in his pocket, he holds a 20$ Canadian bill

he is staking a lot

on the hope

that the bank will assume that

Canada is similar enough to America

and will give him a fair price for it.

he sees some coloring books on a shelf

and asks if he can have them

because he knows some children that will

appreciate them

they are only half colored in

and not even he knows if he is telling the truth.

he eyeballs the paper he holds with

some queen on it

he asks again

for a cup of coffee...

The best thing since.

he kisses her on the cheek

as she throws her crammed knapsack

into the backseat of her cranberry lebaron

she doesn't look in his eyes

he crosses the street

it's a one way.

he is holding a whole loaf of white bread.

he looks back across

to see if maybe she' s glancing too.

she is not.

her eyes remain pointed forward

he hangs his head.

Holiday

I once met an ex-punk

who once partied with The Pretenders

in their limo.

She went to Dead Kennedy shows

with her boyfriend

and her fishnets.

She's over 50 now

and cleans houses

of rich people who live by the lake.

But, she still gets nostalgic

over Jello Biafra,

no matter how many

dining room tables she polishes.

Edit: Second Guessing

Trying to be

a little proactive

in situations

where self

pity is

no longer

acceptable.

Like learning

to ride a bike

again,

or learning

to keep a beat

without a

metronome.

One of which,

was exceedingly

difficult for

me.

I always feel

best writing

when it's after

midnight,

like some kind

of creative

gremlin

eating or

something

like that.

A name

A baby,

born on September 15th, 2009.

A boy.

A boy,

lost on September 15th, 2007.

A baby.

Just seventeen.

The town,

the neighborhood,

the high school,

the same.

A name,

Sebastian.

Coincidence.

...

right?

Judas, you've been pretty cool since Easter.

Sometimes,

I lay outside

arms stretched wide

and imagine what it must have felt like

to be crucified.

Welcome to the club.

Sitting behind three preteens

eating ice cream.

Them, and me.

"You know that feeling

in your stomach,

when you're really really happy?

It's like a little love.

It's like that."

I give it 2 and a half years

of bliss, ignorance,

before the cynicism sets in.

Legitimacy.

I wrote in a livejournal for 6 years

nearly everyday

and quit

simply because I came to the conclusion

that "real writers" don't compose

anything meaningful online diaries.

So I tried writing in a "real book"

legitimate paper,

going through at least seven different journals

without ever going through even one.

With cool handwriting.

"Artist" handwriting.

And in black ink.

Because that's how it's always been done.

And that's how I could be respected.

But looking back

in my fucking little "livejournal"

I find the best stuff I've ever written.

The realest, at least.

The most frequent.

So, fuck it.

I can't believe I ever thought creativity

was this commodity to be legitimized.

Like my black ink prose is better

because it's in moleskin.

Plus, to be honest, by handwriting is pathetic.

21 Tree

I saw this necklace last week
at an art gallery collective,
black glass, with a tree on it.
Couldn't stop thinking about it.
Wanted it.
NEEDED it, for some reason.

Rationalized spending 35$.
Went back to buy it.
Closed.

Next day,
went back,
open.

Guy working really seemed to
take a liking to me.
Introduced me to his dog.
(Bear)
(who was in his car)
And also talked about his girlfriend.
and how she doesn't really like his dog.

He talked to me about James Bond
and what kind of chain to put on my necklace.
He asked me if I'd like to call him sometime.
I told him to come to the coffee shop-
instead-
and wrote down it's phone number.

He kept shaking my hand. At least 3 times.
The kind where the person takes your one hand
into both of theirs.
"So glad to meet you".

I gave him 40$ for a 35$ necklace
and he gave me 16$ in change.


I can't go back with a clean conscience.