heavy clouds
violence, like motorcycle noises richocheting.back to the season. i can feel it grasping at something inside of me. with this x-vicious terror, listening to sad music feels like i'm talking, lets me express something - unbottle something.
scene: outside bailey hall. it's raining, a tired sort of pour, as if the clouds are sighing.
kate was there for awhile. so was april - and goodman, i think. i eventually took out a cigarette and smoked. the fake clouds eagerly escaped upwards, trying to mimic the bigger ones. i stood there, noncomittal for the most part. the leaves hung like eyebags off of the slick branches. people walked by in various forms. my eye skated over most of them dispassionately. a girl walked by in tight jeans. i watched her ass. a guy walked by in a red-sox hat and a hooded sweatshirt. i watched the shuffle of his walking pattern. all of them moved by with such blank destinations - like birthday cards waiting to be written in. faces noncommital, full of the passingby thoughts that occur while in motion -
eventually, the small crowd of us drifted apart. mike had joined us, at some point - three of us five were smoking. my eyes felt tired -
"anyone else going to the crackamateria?" goodman asked, in his casually offhand way - but with that breezily nonchalant voice that hides a deeper insecurity -
"no, i'm goin' to class," mike replied, stretching. i don't think he really knows who goodman is.
"i'm skipping drama lit," i remarked idly. flicking the cigarette down with more left to smoke, crushing it violently so that the black innards smeared like roadkill on the concrete.
"yeah..." mike nodded. the tension of leaving hung in the air like christmas ornaments, bowing down a branch of pine -
i began to walk away. the rain dressed the top of my head in a silent turban, weighing everything down. "you okay, man? seem kinda - down, today."
i turned, every tensed muscle suddenly full of need, full of exploding mouths opening to shout out a billion hatreds, a thousand sorrows, everything in me torquing to create mouths that WOULD speak - and then my real mouth opened wearily, tugging shoulders with it .. "it's just the season. always happens this time of year."
he nodded, and i turned, and his hand fell off of my shoulder. "i'll see you tonight, then - "
i nodded, coughing slightly into a fist. "sure."
and walked. the mouths inside of me slammed shut, sewed a little tighter closed.
maybe i'll live my whole life / just getting by / maybe i'll be discovered / maybe i'll be colonised - one of the two ani difranco songs i like.
the season tilts on its axis like a globe in a fifthgrade classroom. full of dingy fingerprints. smashed into the blue flat oceans. i withdraw further into the world's hollow cardboard interiour.
[what are you looking forward to?] peter asks.
[dunno,] i reply.
i know you're wise beyond your years / but do you ever get the fear / that your perfect verse is just a lie /
you tell yourself to help you / get by /