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/ november is a month of ghosts

a grey knive lurking on the corner of the bathroom counter, incongruously balanced on the edge - just about to fall - the light of day leaked into the room like dish detergent being squeezed gently out of a bottle, and over in the corner, rats rustled in a paper bag. he walked into the room to the sound of the ceiling fan slowly misunderstood. his left sneaker squeaked slightly. paper in his pocket crumpled up and a blue crayon behind one ear. a muddy cigarette in one hand and no lighter. his eyes are silently stained-glass windows inside a church with no congregation, waiting for the hollow bellpulls - the doorbell of the Almighty. he takes out a sharpie and marks an x on the wall. moments later a fly buzzes fatly in and lands on the ��������������������������������������������spot, preening and humming to itself. below, at the baseboard, an ant trundles in. he looks at the mirror. he looks away. outside, a bird hits the window, and all things still, in hushed������������������������������������������mourning. an ignorant cricket looses a selfish mating call and
2003-03-22, 9:46 p.m.

"your hands are so smooth...

��������� �����tragically, nothing is summing up my mood.

a dull car hood, the dream sequence began and ended with the woman's head thrusting upwards, eliminating moonlight for a moment. poetry forms throatily between us, and i am realising she's my muse, the muse that they all speak so highly of, the amazing thrust and pull and tug and blasphemy (oops) and is it wrong that blasphemy feels like an (oops)?

i was wrong. "konstantine" fulfills my mood. ten o'clock and iraq on the mind. empty whiteboards and the crushing sensation of being chock-a-block debris. i have a paper representation of a cross taped inside my closet. rachel noticed it yesterday. the snow outside is melting.

i read all these diaries of "he touched my hand. across the rusted over vauxhall. i wish i wish i could have him back. ben kweller plays. sad guitar. moon, stars. the solemn drip of water. liquid funeral." i sigh, in rememberance for something in the future. i write songs and crumple the papers, jamming them into the throat of my untuned, unplayed guitar that i paid one hundred dollars for.

my fingers remain uncallused.

the temperature climbs steadily, like a tireless man up a ladder, a little man in gray clothing that changes to red and yellow as he goes. his name is Nature Phillips. his mother was a hippie and his father a devout atheist. he paints the clouds black when his mood takes him. he has never heard of zoloft.

the redhead in my dream is lying splayed against the meadow of haze and mist. trees are abundant. please don't think that this was easy. because we both know what it's like to be alone, don't we? (i'm dreaming in your living room.)

but it's a bi-polar moment, just for a second, like ice cracking - that horrible sound! - and wondering if indeed, people migrated from wayless to introibo with the change of season, wondering if this heartburn that returns is indeed a bad thing. there is a cast party tonight and i am wearing these very strange boots that are extremely comfortable. a blue-plaid short sleeve shirt. (my konstantine came walking down the stairs.)

i am constructed of unformed poetry today. i would like to be put into stanzas, please. but i don't have to rhyme.

(psst. i've had enough of deconstruction. wear a hard hat.

it's time)



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�SEH