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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
2003-06-22, 6:28 a.m.

l'enfant terrible

��������� �����haven't had a lot to write about lately. been reading. stuck in the middle of 'infinite jest' still and just now concluded the order of the phoenix harry potter book that everyone's so garglemouthed over. it's worth the hype. a good, solid read with a lot of ... improvements. and that's hesitant. i keep looking at the series so far as a series working toward a definite conclusion .. an end-game, if you will. looking forward to it very much. enjoying the series on a whole. although by the time it's finished i suspect i'll be into my late twenties. imagine the kids who read it now. six and seven. by the time it's done they'll be in their late teens, i suspect.

what an odd thought.

finding myself realizing how much of a real child i am, after all. laying on a magnificiently quiet and comfortable bed in kristin's room today, staring at the ceiling. periodically tugging down on my shirt's hem to cover any showing of skin. weirdly paranoid about that. strange little physical awareness. jason told me once that the reason i felt so uncomfortable with myself was because i was like nothing at all. i needed to 'gain weight' and i disagreed. or something. skin&bones. watching the sun sort of this morning. i'll go look for a job in the mall today. make up some excuse. travel. watch the money in my bank account shrivel up. the food supply shrivel up. the thoughts in my head expand and balloon up until it seems i have hydrocephalus.

thoughts about guys lately. weird 'gay' thoughts even though all i want is physical validation. a curious electrical current between outstretched fingertips and an unsuspecting broad-shoulder, a silence that i don't let myself go any further than the dramatic chasm i've created, and let the tenuous energy drop. it surges back inside of me like an angry live wire, scorching my insides. and i bear it like the self-flagellates. mea culpa mea maxima culpa and grin swallow-slowly on the outside. but it's a new possibility, a new thought, perhaps.

it's people like the Fags (yes, capital F, who pride about in their rainbows) who i dislike. who make it so much harder for people to cope with their incumbent sexualities, regardless. go on! make buffoons of yourselves. be prideful and flamboyant. i'd like to organize a Straight Day, although i'm not the one to do it now am i! i'll leave it to the man's man, like mark, or matt, or peter - or god knows, god knows, and god doesn't care. this twist of bizarre coiled anger inside. i guess i had more to say than i thought i did. vague rhetoric fills up a lot more space than honesty. it's what poetry is - vague recompense for some blatantly stated truth, skirting the issue and dabbing it up with doilies and pretty words. when a sentence could be good.

"life is pain. suffering is optional." i heard that somewhere once.

pop a tums. heartburn has been in force lately, don't know why. today is the second day of summer and i'm rather dully excited about it. lemonade - a bit too watery - sits in a coke glass off to one side. i could develop tracheoesophageal cancer, you know, from this, probably. although if i just didn't think about it i'd probably live longer, you know, not contract anything because i would be adding stress to it. physical bodily harm on the inside. a slow suicide, you creeping cells who steathily mis-divide on me and abnormate yourselves ... that one loner cell

just think it

that one loner cell, the lost kid with the funny glasses on the playground in fourth grade - the one you call monkey boy and who has the pent-up aggression steaming behind his glasses - will be the one to mutilate through your other, healthy jockbody cells and crush you all to some sort of enfeebled domination later in life. and that Cancer cell will come out of the closet, too, and before he destroys those healthy cells, he'll FUCK them too. graphically. and then they'll die.

(this is how paranoia turns a simple biological problem like cancer into a deep, psychological issue of a slow transformation from hetero to homo. thank you. dr freud.) he has issues

but i pent them up so well lately!

stop. take off the manic-depressive robes and put on the blankfaced trousers, replete with the mildly cynical t-shirt, and the tradition angsty wristwatch. add a nosering for blatant dissention, too. and you're all set to go.

i'm such a child. the book was good. harry potter. if i was younger i could be him. :) but i'd prefer to be pyro from the x-men. jason wrote "pyro" on my back with his finger one night and it made me so happy. delusionally attached to the prospect of grandeur. and movie-world. and since i don't know how else to end this entry

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�SEH